


Nocturlabe

by luchia



Series: stupid terrorist boys [5]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Because after actual terrorism in actual paris i feel sick at even the thought of continuing, Healthy Relationships, M/M, Obsession, Terrorists
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2018-02-15 16:19:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 85,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2235462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luchia/pseuds/luchia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Who else could really deal with him right now? Who else would be able to help him?” Enjolras asks.</p><p>“I don’t know, maybe someone with a psychiatric background,” Grantaire bites out, trying to stay calm and failing completely. “We aren’t healthy, Enjolras! We are so, <i>so</i> fucked up. Do you really want to subject a kid to that? Do you think we could even keep him alive? We can barely keep <i>ourselves</i> alive.”</p><p>(Or: Grantaire has to somehow be the voice of reason because everyone's going crazy insisting they keep this kid even though there's some bullshit conspiracy around him and Enjolras is going ACTUALLY crazy and won't let Grantaire even try to help and god he's just so fucking done, he really is.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Marseille - Musain

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Taken directly from Wikipedia: A nocturnal is an instrument used to determine the local time based on the relative positions of two or more stars in the night sky. Sometimes called a "horologium nocturnum" (time instrument for night) or **nocturlabe** (in French and occasionally used by English writers), it is related to the astrolabe and sun dial.
> 
> From me: A nocturlabe is a way to tell time based on the stars - BUT, the more complicated the device, the more it can tell you, like the day and month and year. Stars are always in motion, but if the night sky is clear and you can find your stars, you can see your place in the world (d'awww).
> 
> 2\. As ever, this part of [a series](http://archiveofourown.org/series/42515) and you will probably have a very difficult time following along if you haven't read the other 190,000 words ha ha ha what am I doing
> 
> 3\. There are some truly amazing and generous and talented people out there in the world who have seen fit to make stuff related to Gnomon and Clepsydra and other stupid terrorist boys stuff, which you can see at [gnomonfic.tumblr.com](http://gnomonfic.tumblr.com/). I also ramble about things there sometimes. I strongly encourage you to check it out!
> 
> 4\. IMPORTANT: There's a strong likelihood that you will think there was a sexual assault of a minor that's just never explicitly stated or touched on. THERE WASN'T, that did not happen, absolutely _nothing_ like that is actually in this fic. _At all._ There _is_ mention of child abuse, but this fic is almost entirely about the trauma and recovery.

Grantaire long ago recognized the unfortunate trend that good houses belong to bad people.

The mansion outside of Marseille is breathtakingly beautiful, styled after Roman villa architecture and sitting just close enough to the ocean that it nearly tips towards the cliff walls that fall straight down into the foamy blue waters below. 

“We don’t have time to admire the view, Grantaire,” Enjolras snaps, which is fair. Mostly. They’re at the clean-up stage now, Enjolras’ undoubtedly corrupt target already nice and murdered right along with the guards. Even with blood smeared across the glass, Grantaire still can’t help but appreciate it all. With a sigh, he obeys and continues checking the rooms one by one for any loose ends.

He’s checking yet another bedroom when a gunshot cracks through the building, and Grantaire immediately turns and runs. He’s nowhere near close enough when Enjolras shouts Grantaire’s name, and there’s a level of panic that makes Grantaire’s heart clench painfully as he approaches the source in this infuriatingly enormous house.

When Grantaire sprints through the door, there’s no carnage or gunfight or anything that remotely justifies the tone of Enjolras’ voice. There’s just Enjolras standing rigidly with his hands up and looking infinitely relieved when Grantaire arrives, gun already drawn. “Oh thank god, there’s-”

“Don’t move!” a high, terrified voice shouts, and suddenly it all makes sense.

It's a kid.

The boy is probably nine years old, and the pistol in his hands shaking from both fear and the weight of that particularly massive handgun. He holds it out with his elbows locked and arms wavering, blue eyes wide and frantic.

Grantaire keeps his own gun in hand, but doesn’t aim at the kid. He holds his other up in a hopefully placating motion. “Okay, we’re not going to hurt you, don’t worry,” he says.

All it does is make the boy shake harder. “That’s what _they_ said,” he says.

Grantaire doesn’t know exactly what happens next, because the world whites out for a moment and then Enjolras has his hands clamped down on Grantaire’s shoulders, saying, “They’re _already dead_ , Grantaire, there’s nothing else you can do, concentrate on helping.”

It is a very good point. Grantaire focuses on it.

He takes a slow, deep breath, and then another, before saying, “I’m okay.” Enjolras doesn’t let go, of course, but his grip does loosen. Grantaire makes sure to concentrate on his breathing as he holsters his gun and looks back at the kid.

“Are they really dead?” the kid asks. “All of them?”

Grantaire finally notices there’s a corpse on the floor, and has to fight the urge to start kicking it. He shrugs out of Enjolras’ grip so he can instead get a grip on Enjolras' forearm, tugging him out the door as Grantaire motions for the kid to follow, saying, “See for yourself.”

On the way out, Grantaire glances at the dead body on the floor and gives Enjolras a quick questioning look. He receives a subtle shake of the head in return. The kid did his own dirty work. Grantaire probably shouldn’t be grimly pleased by that.

He also probably shouldn’t be escorting an undoubtedly traumatized kid past brand new corpses they're like cars in a show room. Enjolras is giving him a steady frown, but Grantaire ignores him in favor of watching the kid look more and more relieved and nauseated as they gradually shepherd him out the door while technically being held at gunpoint. It's a slow quiet procession of the kid staring wide-eyed at each body and then stepping closer and closer towards the exit.

When they actually make it out the finely carved wooden doors, the kid flinches at the sunlight, squinting, and Grantaire yet again has to fight the urge to go back in and find some way to kill these people all over again. “We’re going to take you home,” Grantaire says.

“Don’t have one,” the kid says, and finally, _finally_ lowers the gun. Grantaire casually plucks it out of his hands, with no resistance.

“What do you mean, you don’t have a home?” Grantaire asks. “You’ve at least got an orphanage or something, don’t you?”

The kid shakes his head, and then turns to look Grantaire firmly in the eye. “You killed all those people. I want to go with you,” he says.

“What the fuck,” Grantaire says.

“You can’t come with us,” Enjolras says.

And oh fuck, the kid’s lower lip starts quivering, his eyes start getting watery, and Grantaire doesn’t know how to deal with crying kids, he doesn’t know what to do and he turns to look at Enjolras for help but Enjolras looks like he’s _even worse_. Enjolras looks like he's expecting the kid to spring forward and start throwing acid on him.

“I d-don’t have anywhere to go,” the kid says, already sounding like he’s close to hyperventilating. “My family’s _dead_.”

“We can find you somewhere oh god please don’t cry,” Grantaire blurts out and oh god what does he do. But that's reassuring, isn't it?

It isn't, and it doesn’t work. _At all_. He has no fucking clue what to do as the kid starts blubbering, rubbing a bruised arm across his eyes to wipe away tears and oh shit, oh _shit_ , the kid sits on the ground and starts _sobbing_ and Grantaire turns to Enjolras and grabs the lapels of his red coat and gives him a desperate, frantic, “Fix it oh my god.”

“ _How?!_ ” Enjolras whisper-shouts back, but after only another moment of looking at Grantaire, he grimaces and gently removes Grantaire’s hands. He takes a deep breath and walks over to the kid, crouching next to him. “Explain yourself,” he says.

Unsurprisingly, the kid just keeps on crying.

“You said you want to go with us because we killed those people,” Enjolras says, and it actually gets a response – the kid nods and manages to get out an affirmative noise through all the snot and choking. “You’ve already been exposed to enough violence. Why would you want to be around it any longer?”

The kid is hunched over his knees now, hugging them and sitting in some sort of upright fetal position. “Because they deserved it,” he says, almost like he's sulking.

“That doesn’t answer the question,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire is absolutely stunned because the kid’s down to just sniffling. This is actually working. Enjolras is a miracle.

“I don’t _know!_ I just don’t want to be scared!” the kid finally shouts at Enjolras, loud enough that it leaves them all staring stunned at the kid and his ringing lung capacity. For a moment, the only sound is waves crashing against the cliffs below.

Eventually, Enjolras frowns down at the kid. “We can find you somewhere safe, and we can protect you until you get there,” Enjolras says. “But that’s _all_. Understand?”

The kid looks wounded and heartbroken, glancing from Enjolras to Grantaire and then back. Eventually, he nods before tucking back into a ball. He hides his face against his knees.

“What’s your name?” Enjolras asks. He sounds uncommonly intrigued.

“Fabron,” the kid says, and no, _no_ , Grantaire feels as if he can watch the exact moment Enjolras picks the concept of this kid up from the ‘people I only care about in the abstract’ column and drops it into the ‘people I actually recognize as individual beings’ column. That column is dangerously close to the 'people I genuinely care about' one.

Grantaire doesn’t doubt for a moment that they’re going to fuck this up. He just hopes the damage won’t be irreparable.

\---

The kid’s curled up asleep in the back seat of their rental car, Enjolras is driving and looks completely rigid, staring out the windshield like he can see the oncoming apocalypse, and Grantaire does what all of ABC does when things get rough – he freaks out at Combeferre.

“I have a kid oh my god Combeferre what do I do,” Grantaire says. 

There is a long, long pause.

“Does Enjolras know?” Combeferre asks, cautious.

“Of course he knows, the kid’s in the back seat of our car,” Grantaire says.

“What happened to the mother?” Combeferre asks. There is something very sharp, almost panicky in his voice. “Did Enjolras – how did he take it?”

“It’s his idea to even bring the kid, but he says his whole family is dead so what were we supposed to do? Just leave him with all the dead bodies?” Grantaire starts patting himself down for cigarettes and he needs a drink so bad his throat is desert dry but Grantaire is worried Enjolras is going to faint and he’ll be too drunk to drive and they’ll be stuck on the side of the road or go off a cliff or something else terrible and potentially fatal will happen.

Combeferre lets out a long deep breath, and it is somehow reassuring to know Combeferre’s just as freaked out about this as they are. But he’s Combeferre, so he actually knows what to do. “Okay, listen to me very carefully, Grantaire,” Combeferre says firmly. “Don’t tell anyone about this. You two come straight home, and bring your kid, and we can figure this all out then. Only stop driving to refuel. Don’t contact Cosette – don’t contact _anyone_.” There’s a pause. “He’s under control now, right?”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Grantaire lies because oh god if Fabron starts crying again he absolutely can’t handle it.

“I wish you’d called me sooner,” Combeferre says.

“We’ve been kind of _busy_ , Combeferre,” Grantaire says. Besides, Enjolras did their regular check-in call. Or at least Grantaire thinks he did. He usually does, at least?

“I understand, that happens sometimes,” Combeferre says, nice and soothing, and this is why everyone calls Combeferre. Combeferre is the best. “Just get here as quickly as possible. And Grantaire?”

Grantaire frowns. “What?”

“Thank you for staying with him,” Combeferre says. “I don’t even want to think of what could’ve happened otherwise.”

Which is a good point, Grantaire supposes. Who knows what would’ve happened to the kid if they’d just left him there? He _still_ doesn’t know what’s going to happen to the kid, even when they get to Combeferre in Paris.

“I just hope I can keep it together until we get home,” Grantaire says. 

“You’re the only one who can,” Combeferre says.

It makes him look over at shellshocked Enjolras, who is staring out at the road like he can't see a damn thing. “Thanks, Combeferre,” he says, and hangs up.

It’s an eight hour drive to Paris. They’ll get home at probably 10PM.

“We’re supposed to get home as soon as possible, driving,” Grantaire tells Enjolras.

“Fine,” Enjolras says, grip tight on their rental car's steering wheel.

Grantaire frowns. “Are you alright?”

“No, but I will be,” he says, in the way that isn't _quite_ lying and means he thinks it’s actually impossible but he’ll die trying anyway. When Grantaire just keeps watching him, Enjolras finally sighs and runs a hand across his eyes, shoulders loosening slightly. “What the fuck are we doing, Grantaire? This is so far beyond us. We have to unload this kid before we destroy what’s left of him.”

And oh thank _fuck_ , Enjolras is actually being reasonable about this. He actually sees the truth of this whole situation. Grantaire doesn’t want to know what Fabron went through, doesn’t want to ask, doesn’t even want to _think_ about it. He also knows they’ve probably just made things worse. The kid needs things Enjolras and Grantaire could never give him and the idea that Fabron actually _wants_ to go with them is – it’s preposterous. It's horrific.

Grantaire is so, so relieved that Combeferre will fix everything when they get home.

“I think we can at least survive an eight hour drive with a kid in the car,” Grantaire says, even if they both know there’s nothing but fake optimism in the statement. It should be reasonable though, right? How bad could it be? Grantaire nods to himself, resolved. “We can do this. We’ve done shit that makes this look like a walk in the park.”

“Yes we have,” Enjolras says firmly.

“He’ll probably sleep the whole way,” Grantaire reasons. “We won’t even have to speak to him, he’ll just wake up parked in front of wherever Combeferre found for him.”

“Combeferre will fix everything,” Enjolras says.

“And everything will be fine,” Grantaire says, and yes. Yes, it will all be fine.

\---

It’s not fine.

Fabron sleeps hard for a good five hours, and they’re twenty minutes past Beaune when he wakes up and _screams_. It’s an awful, shrill, terrified noise, accompanied with the kid bashing his fist against the window.

“Calm down, calm down,” Grantaire says, and unbuckles to turn, kneeling on his seat to face the panicking kid. It's an awkward twist of elbows and hips, but Grantaire manages. He holds his hands up, and tries to ignore the joys of inertia while Enjolras is careening off the road to stop the car as quickly as possible. “Hey, you’re fine, we’re taking you somewhere safe, remember?”

“That’s not going to work,” Enjolras says, teeth clenched as he throws the car into park and yanks his seat belt off.

Grantaire shoots him an aggravated glare before turning back to watch helplessly as Fabron screams and sobs against the back seat. “How do you know?”

“Because it doesn’t work on you,” Enjolras says, and throws the car door open. He circles around to open Fabron’s door and doesn’t even bother batting away the hands that try to beat at him. It's an ineffective pummeling, scared loose fists barely even impacting. Enjolras just the kid’s head, one hand planted firmly on each side of his face, and says, “Fabron, breathe. In and out. You’re _fine_. Nobody’s going to hurt you, we’re keeping you safe, Fabron, can you hear me? Breathe. You’re safe. It’s okay. Breathe.”

The kid slowly stops screaming, finally falling limp and silent as he stares into Enjolras’ eyes.

Grantaire can’t blame him, it’s a pretty hypnotic sight.

“Are you done?” Enjolras asks.

The kid starts weeping.

“He’s done,” Enjolras says bluntly, and moves away, shutting Fabron’s door.

Grantaire wants to snap at Enjolras for just dropping away like that, but instead focuses on getting the kid back under control. “Hey, it’s okay. I kind of get it,” Grantaire says, even if it feels completely pathetic. It's like offering a handkerchief to someone with lung cancer. Still, it does make the kid turn towards Grantaire, blue eyes reddened from all the crying and exhaustion. Grantaire has no fucking idea what he should say. “Your brain just sort of short-circuits on you and your body moves without _you_ being involved. Enjolras has to snap me out of those too.”

“Really?” Fabron asks, voice more of a croak than anything else.

“Really,” Grantaire says with a nod, and tries very hard to not sigh. If this is what Enjolras has to deal with, it’s a wonder Enjolras hasn’t – well. Enjolras wouldn’t leave, _ever_ , but he can imagine Enjolras needing a break at least. When Enjolras gets back into the car, Grantaire grabs his right arm and pulls the sleeve of his coat and shirt down enough to show the scar on his forearm. “I gave him that during a panic attack about a year ago.”

“You didn’t know what you were doing,” Enjolras says with a frown, but doesn’t try to take his arm back.

“Exactly,” Grantaire says, releasing Enjolras’ arm, and raises his eyebrows at the kid in the back of their car. “Understand?”

“You need to buckle your seatbelt,” Enjolras says.

“We’re kind of busy, Enjolras,” Grantaire says.

“Exactly, which is why you need to _sit down_ ,” Enjolras snaps, and Grantaire rolls his eyes, but complies.

Weirdly enough, the kid in the back snickers.

Enjolras scowls at him through the rear view mirror. “You’d better be-”

He doesn’t even get through the exceptionally vague hint of a threat before there’s a _click_ , and Enjolras gets them back on the road.

Grantaire plucks a cigarette out of his coat, his lighter out of his pants pocket, and he’s barely got it lit when the kid says, “Smoking’s bad for you.”

“It is _very_ bad for you,” Grantaire agrees, and doesn’t even think of putting it out.

\---

The next forty-five minutes are spent in silence, but Enjolras breaks, like he always does. He's incapable of keeping his mouth shut, he really can’t, Grantaire can't remember him ever going more than ninety minutes without speaking while awake. Grantaire expects him to start talking about the kid, or complaining. Instead, Enjolras says, “We’ve been doing this for almost six years.”

“Four years,” Grantaire corrects. “There was a very important two year gap in there.”

“No, I mean – us. We’ve been _us_ for six years,” Enjolras says, glancing in the mirror in a way that Grantaire knows he’s checking on the kid. Fabron dozed off again after twenty minutes of silence, but it’s a light sleep.

Grantaire has a terrible sinking feeling, like Enjolras just shoved a cannonball into his stomach.

“You can’t possibly be thinking of keeping him,” he says.

Enjolras makes a frustrated noise. “I _know_ it’s a bad idea-”

“To put it mildly,” Grantaire says.

“-but think about it, Grantaire. Who else could really deal with him right now? Who else would be able to help him?” Enjolras asks.

“I don’t know, maybe someone with a psychiatric background,” Grantaire bites out, trying to stay calm and failing completely. “We aren’t healthy, Enjolras! We are so, _so_ fucked up. Do you really want to subject a kid to that? Do you think we could even keep him alive? We can barely keep _ourselves_ alive.”

“I know that,” Enjolras says.

“Then why the fuck are you thinking of doing this?!” Grantaire shouts.

“I don’t know!” Enjolras shouts back. “I don't _know_ , I just have this-”

Grantaire groans. “If you say you have a _feeling_ about this I swear-”

“Then tell me when one’s been wrong!” Enjolras counters. “Give me an example of a time when one of my _feelings_ has been wrong. I'm serious. Something is telling me we’re supposed to do this, Grantaire.”

“Do you really think we would be successful parents?” Grantaire asks, completely baffled. “Do you really think we'd even be _survivable_ parents?”

“I don’t know,” Enjolras says. “Maybe there’s some sort of trial run we could do.”

“This isn’t a fucking gym membership, Enjolras,” Grantaire snaps. “This is a _child_ , and one that is _extremely_ fucked up right now, and he needs stability and comfort and _sanity_ and we can’t provide any of that.”

Enjolras doesn’t argue the point, surprisingly. He obviously wants to, but he clenches his jaw and tightens his grip on the steering wheel and keeps it to himself. “We shouldn’t be trying to make this decision right now,” Enjolras says.

It’s true. They haven’t slept in over a day thanks to the amount of preparation required to take down an entire villa of armed criminals and the fact they no longer have Combeferre to do most of the research for them (he still contributes, obviously, but supervising the militant _and_ political sides of ABC can’t be done as closely as it was before, not if Combeferre wants to stay sane). That isn't even mentioning how driving always gets to them in a way that trains don’t, from the stop and go and stop and go and actually having to pay attention to surroundings. Plus, having the kid nearby makes everything infinitely more difficult because Grantaire can turn around and glance behind him and see Fabron slumped against the door looking tiny and hurt and _fuck_ , it makes Grantaire so furious and terrified when he actually looks at the kid.

No, this is definitely not the time to make any potentially life-changing choices.

“Combeferre will know what to do,” Enjolras says.

\---

Driving through Paris is miserable and should be avoided at all costs, and Enjolras has barely turned onto the Musain’s street before they spot Courfeyrac pacing in front of the door. The café’s lights are off even though it’s barely eleven, and Courfeyrac doesn't even wait for them to come to a full and complete stop before he’s opened the trunk and is carrying their bags into the Musain, saying, “Get the kid inside, fast.”

And shit, Grantaire never thought of this and he really, _really_ should've. Maybe Fabron has people chasing him. Maybe that’s why he is so desperate to feel safe, and it’s something practical instead of psychological. Maybe he lied about his family being dead (doubtful), or maybe Grantaire is missing some massive aspect to all of this that Combeferre and Courfeyrac already know and are grimly waiting to share when he and Enjolras finally get into the building.

The kid’s still asleep in the back of the car, but there’s no way in hell Grantaire is carrying him inside. But, before Grantaire can even decide how to wake the kid up, Enjolras has opened Fabron’s car door and planted a hand against the kid’s chest, keeping him not quite pinned to the seat. “Wake up, we need you walking,” Enjolras says, loudly, and the kid makes a small gasping noise, eyes opening in a flash of eyelashes. He immediately tries to shove Enjolras away, but Enjolras has already backed off and is standing in front of Grantaire instead.

“This will all work out fine,” Enjolras says, barely glancing over when Fabron stumbles his way to his feet. He simply makes a _this way_ hand gesture, and the kid walks carefully into the Musain directly behind Enjolras, Grantaire staying at their back in case of, well, _something_.

Grantaire can’t think of a single time when he’s seen the café like this, blacked out and completely abandoned. Only familiarity and Courfeyrac guide them up to the same familiar room at the top of the stairs. The kid stumbles a couple of times, but he regains his footing before Grantaire has to reach out and get him back on his feet.

Interestingly, they don’t stop there. Courfeyrac leads them through the two tiny hallways and up the (lit, thankfully) stairs to Enjolras’ apartment. Combeferre is sitting at the kitchen table, head planted firmly on the table top, like he has a suction cup attached to his forehead.

“Courfeyrac, if you’d please take our young guest to the spare bedroom,” Combeferre says.

That really isn’t a good opening. Obviously Grantaire is the only one who understands this, since everyone else seems completely surprised when Fabron immediately bolts for the door. Grantaire had expected this, simply snatching the kid with an arm around his waist. He plants Fabron in front of him and tries to look firm and responsible when he tells him, “Don’t worry. It’s perfectly safe, I promise. These are Enjolras’ brothers, they aren’t going to hurt you, and the door doesn't have a lock on it. We just need to talk about you behind your back.”

The kid stops looking terrified just long enough to glance at Combeferre, and then Courfeyrac, and then _Enjolras_ , and give Grantaire such a disbelieving expression that Grantaire can’t help but snicker. 

“Okay, not biological brothers, but sometimes family’s got nothing to do with blood.” He pauses, and looks up to see the others are watching Grantaire and Fabron carefully. Grantaire doesn’t much care, but meets Enjolras’ eyes. “Go with Courfeyrac, just so he doesn’t freak out.”

“I’m not a baby,” the kid mutters.

“Yes you are,” Grantaire says.

The kid obviously wants to fight back, but Enjolras sighs and tugs lightly on the shoulder of Fabron’s shirt. It's the perfect strength, just enough to get him paying attention and moving along with Enjolras and Courfeyrac at his own pace.

“It’s nice to meet you! I’m Courfeyrac, what’s your name?” Courfeyrac says easily as he beams down at the kid and they head past the kitchen and into the guest bedroom.

Grantaire watches them go with a strange queasy feeling in his stomach.

“Are you okay?” Combeferre asks, head finally off the table, and fuck, Combeferre looks like a complete disaster. What’s usually a tightly-pressed man is instead a wrinkled worried slouch with exhausted eyes.

“Holy shit, are _you_ okay?” Grantaire asks instead, which isn’t quite tactful, but Combeferre looks like he’s got the world's worst case of flu.

Combeferre just lets out a long, deep sigh. “He’s getting worse, isn’t he.”

Grantaire frowns, sliding into the seat across the table from Combeferre. “Who?”

“Enjolras,” Combeferre says, and shakes his head. He looks like his beloved pet just died. “I don’t know what I can do to help, other than clean-up. I don’t know what to tell you, and I don’t doubt for a moment that you’re doing everything in your power to help him, and where does that leave us? What else _can_ we do? The only things I can think of would probably just make things worse.”

It takes Grantaire a moment to catch up, but if this is what’s been plaguing Combeferre’s mind, he understands.

Something inside of Enjolras broke during the whole thing with what's-his-name's dad. It was as if every barrier and safety valve inside of Enjolras exploded, and it turned Enjolras into someone colder yet more passionate, more frantic and desperate and _emotional_. He loses his train of thought sometimes, and has actually called jobs off _right_ in the middle of them, just grabbed Grantaire and walked out the door even with bullets tearing through the air. He’s more unhinged, swinging between recklessness and cautious to the point of inaction.

Grantaire is pretty sure he’s back to his own usual fucked up standards, but that’s mostly because he’s used to this. Getting extremely fucked up and having to come back from it is something he has experience with. Enjolras doesn’t. It took three months for Grantaire to be comfortable just being in a different room, being separated by nothing but a wall or door or two, but Enjolras _still_ gets twitchy from it sometimes. The look of _relief_ that crosses Enjolras’ face every single time he wakes up with Grantaire next to him is incredibly disturbing.

And maybe Combeferre is right. He usually is. Maybe Enjolras’ _feeling_ (another thing he’s developed; he had them before, but never really made a big deal about them, never actually listened to them, was always a creature of logic and agendas and concrete facts first and foremost) about the kid is another example of how Enjolras is still fucked over from that whole incident.

“I thought he was better,” Grantaire says quietly, and it’s true. For the past couple of months, Enjolras _has_ been better, almost like his old self, ever steadily obsessive and ruthlessly efficient.

Combeferre runs a hand through his hair. “That’s a long-term problem, though. It’s necessary to focus on the immediate situation,” he says, and gives Grantaire an intent, concerned look. “Really, how are you doing?”

“Freaking out a little bit,” Grantaire says, but when Combeferre does that _you can do better_ eyebrow raise, Grantaire can’t help but _actually_ answer. “Fuck, I’m panicking, I think Enjolras wants to keep him and I don’t know if I can keep saying no.”

“What would you like to do, then?” Combeferre asks.

Grantaire fumbles his way through his coat and grabs a cigarette and lights it and doesn’t look at Combeferre when he says, “Drop him with someone who could actually take care of him, because fuck knows that isn’t us.”

There’s a long horrible pause, and Grantaire concentrates on the table, the grain of the wood, the dings and scrapes that mar what was probably a disgustingly expensive piece of furniture.

“You don’t want to be involved in his life at all?” Combeferre finally asks.

Grantaire can’t help it. He laughs, more than a little bit panicking. “What, you think I’d be a good influence?”

“We need to keep him,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire almost jumps from surprise, twisting to see him.

Enjolras standing completely rigid just a few steps away, staring at Grantaire in a way that is very, very unhealthy. It’s shock and devotion and something reminiscent of life-threatening situations.

Combeferre is absolutely right.

“We can’t, Enjolras,” Grantaire says, and tries to make it sound like an ultimatum instead of begging. He grinds the cigarette into the ash tray, hoping it’ll take away some of the desperate frustration. It doesn’t. He looks at Enjolras, and knows he has no chance of hiding how fucking _flustered_ he is about this. “We _can’t_. This is-”

He’s cut off when Enjolras lunges forward and wraps his arms around Grantaire. He tucks his head against Grantaire's neck and holds him tightly, almost desperately. “Trust me, please, you’d never forgive yourself if you sent him away,” he says.

“I’d never forgive myself if I fucked everything up,” Grantaire says, and the panic is starting to build, because he knows what’s happening. He knows Enjolras has made his decision, and every cell in Grantaire's body is screaming that it’s the _wrong one_. “We would _ruin_ him, Enjolras. We can’t do this, _I can’t do this_ , this is the second worst idea you’ve ever had.”

Enjolras pulls Grantaire to his feet and keeps them pressed tight together with an arm around his waist, other hand moving up to run his thumb across Grantaire’s cheekbone. Enjolras presses their foreheads together and says, “Don’t you trust me?”

“Of course I do,” Grantaire says, “But-”

“Please, Grantaire. Just trust me,” Enjolras says. “Can't you do that for me?”

“Don’t do this,” Grantaire pleads, because he knows what’s going to happen. He knows this, and he knows he’s going to shatter. Refusing Enjolras anything hurts, but doing it like _this_ is torture. “Listen to me, Enjolras, we _can’t_.”

“We have to, Grantaire. Trust me. We’re responsible for him,” Enjolras says, and there’s something else to it, something to how he says _responsible_ , but Grantaire can’t concentrate on that because Enjolras’ hand slides softly into his hair and he can feel Enjolras’ lips hovering over his own. “Don’t you believe in me?”

“I do,” Grantaire breathes out. He doesn’t dare move. His pulse is so fast that Enjolras can probably feel the blood pounding through his veins when his hand slides against Grantaire’s neck, gentle torment gliding across his skin.

“Don’t you love me?” Enjolras whispers against his lips.

“ _Enjolras!_ ” someone shouts, and Grantaire automatically jerks back to see Courfeyrac standing next to Combeferre’s seat, looking _furious_ and about two seconds from hurtling over the table and punching Enjolras. But, he takes a deep breath, and turns to look at Grantaire instead. “It’s _your_ decision, Grantaire, and it’s not one you have to make right now. In fact, you _shouldn't_ make this decision right now. Sleep on it.” Courfeyrac glances over at Enjolras for a moment, adding, “ _Separately_.”

When he looks over, Enjolras is completely rigid. Grantaire quickly reaches for his hand.

Enjolras pulls away. 

It leaves Grantaire gaping at the now-empty space between them, and when he finally looks at Enjolras, there’s nothing but horror on his face.

Grantaire still can’t think, heart beating frantically.

“I'm sorry,” Enjolras says, quiet and urgent and tied together with a strand of barely-hidden panic. “I wasn’t thinking – there’s no excuse for this, Grantaire, I’m so sorry. _Fuck_ , I am so, _so_ sorry, and Courfeyrac’s right. He is absolutely right. It’s your choice, and the fact I tried to.” He croaks to a stop and shudders, and Grantaire’s pretty sure Enjolras is about to vomit.

“It’s okay,” Grantaire says.

“No, it’s not,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire is still too _fogged_ to do anything but watch as Enjolras strides out of the apartment.

Grantaire just keeps staring at the door, the idea that Enjolras _left_ still difficult to really wrap his mind around.

“Are you alright?” Courfeyrac asks. He’s lingering next to Grantaire, close enough to touch but far enough to not feel invasive. Courfeyrac’s good at that. He can always find the perfect spaces in between, the only one of the triumvirate who really understands _compromise_. 

Grantaire simply nods, and fetches another cigarette.

“Has he done this before?” Courfeyrac asks.

He has to think about how to answer that one for a while, because Enjolras does something like this occasionally with sex (which is _more_ than welcome), but never with real decisions, and never like this. _Never_.

Maybe Combeferre is right, and Grantaire’s just been joyfully oblivious to the degrading state of Enjolras’ mind.

“This isn’t his style,” Grantaire says instead. “He likes arguments and persuasion too much to do anything like this.”

Courfeyrac sighs. “I guess you having a son just broke something,” he says, and lands a comforting hand on Grantaire’s shoulder briefly before turning away.

Grantaire doesn’t want to have a son. He doesn’t want to have something small and vulnerable relying on him. He doesn’t want _anything_ relying on him.

“Get some sleep,” Courfeyrac says with a tight yet reassuring smile, and it sounds like a great idea. Grantaire barely even bothers waving at Combeferre and Courfeyrac before he heads straight for the bedroom.

\---

Sleep _sounded_ like a great idea.

In practice, it doesn't work out very well.

Grantaire curls up on what’s officially his side of the bed with no Enjolras next to him for the first time in a very, very long time. It’s cold and lonely and he keeps reaching out for something to hold only to find nothing, and Grantaire ends up staring at their shuttered window wishing desperately that the last 24 hours never happened.

When there’s a quiet knock on the door at two in the morning, Grantaire isn’t surprised. He’s _relieved_ , and trips out of the tangled snarl of sheets that he’s wrapped in from all the kicking and twisting. The knock comes again barely moments before Grantaire finally reaches the door, and he hears a careful, “Grantaire?”

It’s Enjolras, and Grantaire reaches to pull the door open, only for it to be yanked closed from the other side. “No, it’s – I just wanted to explain, and apologize,” Enjolras says.

“And you have to be on the other side of the door for that?” Grantaire asks, incredulous.

“For this, yes,” Enjolras says in that firm voice that means he’s already made up his mind, so Grantaire just rolls his eyes because why is he surprised? He already knew Enjolras is an idiot. There’s a pause, and then Enjolras says, “Are you still there?”

Grantaire has no idea why he’s so in love with the moron. “Of course I am, which you’d know if you got your head out of your ass and-”

“Just let me do this, Grantaire,” Enjolras snaps, and Grantaire sighs, but obeys. He sits down on the floor in front of the door because there’s no easily moveable chair in the bedroom, and waits. It doesn’t take long, because it’s Enjolras. “I need to explain myself. I was completely out of line, and I’m sorry. I swore to myself I’d never do anything like that, that I’d _never_ take advantage of you, and I broke that promise. I know not to say it’ll never happen again, because I can’t guarantee that, but I swear I’m going to be better.” He takes a deep breath. “I don’t really know what would’ve happened if Courfeyrac hadn’t been there, and that scares me.”

“You’re forgiven,” Grantaire says.

“But.” There’s a pause. “I have more, though,” Enjolras says.

“Of course you do,” Grantaire says, and scrubs a hand down his face. He’s too tired to (fully) indulge Enjolras. “Look, this is like the stalking thing, okay? You freaked out enough for the both of us, and I know you’re not going to do it again, even if you don’t. I appreciate the apology, but you don’t have to keep going. I know that you’re _you_ and you do this shit and I’m still around, if you couldn’t tell.”

There’s a light thud against the middle of the door. Grantaire’s pretty sure it’s Enjolras dropping his head against the wood. “You shouldn’t be, though,” Enjolras says, and makes a frustrated noise. “Fuck, it just drives me crazy that you just _accept_ it when I fuck up this bad, Grantaire. You used to storm out, or at least get _angry_ -”

“And you used to never apologize for anything, no matter how much of an asshole you were,” Grantaire says, and gasps dramatically. “Dear god, it’s almost like we’ve _matured_.”

“That _is_ sort of disturbing,” Enjolras mutters.

“Just get back to your speech,” Grantaire says, because admitting he agrees with Enjolras makes him insufferable for at least three days.

There’s a pause where Grantaire _knows_ Enjolras is fighting the urge to deny he thought up a speech, but then he sighs. “There’s something you don’t know about Fabron,” he says. “I haven’t told you because it would hurt you, and I’m not going to change my mind. But what matters is that we _are_ responsible for him. He’s not just some random kid, Grantaire. We have to take care of him.”

Grantaire isn’t sure what to do with that. He knows Enjolras isn’t going to tell him more, but he’s said enough that Grantaire can reach the obvious conclusions – whatever else may be behind it, the kid was there because of _them_. Enjolras probably gave his usual ultimatum to the villa guy, which meant they probably took the kid as insurance or a hostage or something.

But on the plus side, that means Fabron was probably there for a week at the most. That’s a nice thought.

Still, they might be responsible for destroying the kid’s life, but does that put them in charge of his entire fucking existence?

“I know you had a bad childhood,” Enjolras says. “But I also know you’d fight to keep from making the same mistakes your parents did.”

“You don’t even know what the mistakes were,” Grantaire says, and leans against the door. 

“I’d like to,” Enjolras says, giving Grantaire a big enough opening that a tank could roll through with him.

Grantaire isn’t going to say a damn thing, so he redirects, scowling at the door. “You weren’t even raised by your parents, Enjolras, you were raised by the fucking _maid_. That isn’t what you’re supposed to do as a parent. Parents are in charge of the kid, they’re supposed to take care of the kid and keep them safe and happy and healthy, and we can’t do that.”

“It’s our responsibility to at least try,” Enjolras says, and there’s a scraping noise on the other side of the door. “If you’re really so against this, that’s fine. It’s your decision. But I have a proposal I’d like to share.”

“Holy shit, are you _compromising_?” Grantaire blurts out.

“I am. This is so important to me that I’m _actually compromising_ , Grantaire,” Enjolras says. “My proposal is this. We give it a month, and say Combeferre’s spending the time finding him a good family. If we are truly and completely terrible parents, or if Fabron doesn’t want to stay with us, then we really do send him to another family. But if not, if there is _some_ parental capability, we keep him.”

“So basically we subject him to a month of child abuse,” Grantaire says.

“That’s one extremely pessimistic way to look at it, yes,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire frowns. “You actually think we can do this, don’t you?”

“I think we need to,” Enjolras says. “We’re both smart, we can figure it out as we go.”

“This is going to be a disaster,” Grantaire says, and slides away from the door, mind made up. “Come to bed.”

It takes a moment, but Enjolras says, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“To _sleep_ , Enjolras,” Grantaire says. “Apparently I’m at the point where I can’t sleep without you.”

“Oh,” Enjolras says. He doesn’t mention that he can’t sleep either, mostly because he doesn’t need to. Grantaire already knows. He can barely manage napping without Grantaire next to him. “Courfeyrac was right, though, Grantaire. Maybe we do need time apart.”

“We had some,” Grantaire says, unimpressed with Enjolras’ blend of self-flagellation and completely unsubtle quest for reassurance from Grantaire. He wants Grantaire to tell him it’s okay, and that he was right, and that everything will be fine, and Grantaire isn’t exactly in the mood for that. He’s _tired_ , and Enjolras is being stubborn and stupid, so he stands up and yanks the door open.

Enjolras tumbles through with an undignified squawking noise, barely catching himself before falling over. His hair looks particularly stunning – _everything_ looks stunning, really – so Grantaire doesn’t have to wonder where he went after rushing out.

Grantaire’s automatic instinct is to steady him and help him undress and curl up tight and warm in bed with him, but instead he just goes back to bed, flopping face first into the pillow. Enjolras wants to feel guilty for a while longer, and Grantaire is too tired to help him with that.

It doesn’t take long for Enjolras to cautiously sit on the other side of the bed, still hesitating, as if there’s _any_ chance he’d be unwelcome.

“For fuck’s sake, I’m _tired_ , stop being so stupid,” Grantaire says, and yanks on Enjolras’ nearest arm roughly enough that he has no choice but to let gravity drop him onto the mattress. Conveniently, Grantaire’s already got an easy grip on Enjolras’ hand.

Enjolras takes his time about it, but eventually he shifts closer, and it finally feels right enough for Grantaire to drift asleep.

\---

Grantaire wakes up at barely six in the morning because the kid’s screaming again. Enjolras curses and rushes straight towards the guest room the second he actually realizes what’s happening, but Grantaire grumbles his way out of bed. He thinks for a moment, listening as the kid slowly calms down with Enjolras there to do his panic-whisperer thing, and stops by their bags before heading towards the commotion.

On the way to the guest room, he can’t help but notice Montparnasse is sitting on the counter of their kitchen picking through a box of cereal.

He raises his hands in surrender when he notices Grantaire and says, “Swear it wasn’t me.”

“I know it wasn’t,” Grantaire says, sighs, and heads into the guest room.

The kid’s down to quiet crying by the time Grantaire gets in, with Enjolras kneeling next to the bed looking painfully awkward. He gives Grantaire a relieved, grateful look when he spots him, but it quickly turns into confusion when he notices what’s in Grantaire’s hand.

He sits down on the side of the bed and looks at Fabron. The kid’s got his eyes covered, curled up against his knees again, and Grantaire knows this is probably a horrible idea, but it’s the best he’s got.

“When I lose it like that, it’s because I feel helpless,” Grantaire says, and Fabron finally looks over at him. His eyes go impossibly wide when he sees the gun in Grantaire’s hand. He figures now’s as good a time as any, so he quickly ejects the magazine to show it’s empty. “You can’t kill anyone with it, but you can scare the shit out of them before we can get to you. And then Enjolras and I show up, take care of it, and everything’s safe and fine.”

Fabron just looks at the gun for a while, but then takes it out of Grantaire’s hand with a familiarity that isn’t lost on Grantaire. The kid’s obviously used a gun before, since he’s already killed someone and held them at gunpoint, so Grantaire isn’t too worried about that. Also, he’s _killed someone_ , so Grantaire knows he’s not going to treat it like a toy.

“When do I get bullets?” Fabron asks.

“You don’t,” Grantaire says. “Usually the threat of a bullet is just as effective as actually having one. The thing that messes people up is having the safety on when threatening someone with a gun, but you already know how to use this. If you treat it like it’s loaded, so will whoever’s threatening you. Understand?”

The kid nods, and Grantaire can see it’s actually working. He’s stopped crying, and looks more composed than Grantaire’s ever seen.

“Also, you’re safe while you’re in this apartment. In this _building_ , really,” Grantaire adds. “Enjolras pretty much controls the entire thing. If someone’s made it through the Musain’s doors, they’re not going to hurt you. This is probably the safest place in Paris, so you don’t have to bother carrying the gun around unless you leave and we’re not with you.”

Fabron nods again, obviously listening and committing the information to heart. The level of trust the kid has in them is kind of scary.

“Are you okay now?” Grantaire asks.

The kid hesitates, looking over at Enjolras before meeting Grantaire’s eyes and saying, “I am.”

“Good. Try to get some more sleep, it’s still early,” Grantaire says, and doesn’t let himself look back when he gets up and walks out the door because what the _fuck_ is he doing? He just gave a pistol to a nine year old and told him to hold people at gunpoint, he’s telling the kid that he should _stay here_ and fuck, _fuck_ , what is he _doing?_

And the worst part of it all is that whatever Grantaire is doing, it’s _working._

He’s about to just fall back into bed and throw the covers over his head and pretend the world doesn’t exist for a while, but Montparnasse clears his throat obnoxiously loud and Enjolras is already planting a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder and there’s no escape. Grantaire has to deal with his own life.

Enjolras looks fuzzy and exhausted, close to slumping down until Grantaire is the only thing keeping him upright, but he still sounds clear and certain when he says, “I _know_ we could manage a month, Grantaire.”

Grantaire’s pretty sure they could too, but he’s also pretty sure the kid would be emotionally and psychologically scarred in the process.

“Go back to bed, Enjolras,” Grantaire says. “We can talk about this when you’re not half asleep.”

Enjolras shifts to look at Montparnasse. “But Montparnasse came over to talk,” he says.

“Yeah, but not to you,” Montparnasse says. “I need to bitch about you with your boy, go to bed.”

Enjolras frowns. “What did I do?”

“Oh, you know what you did,” Montparnasse says.

Enjolras looks like he’s actually trying to figure it out, so Grantaire takes pity on his poor brain-dead husband and says, “He’s just messing with you, Enjolras, go back to bed.”

He doesn’t look happy about it, but eventually Enjolras sighs, presses a light sleepy kiss to Grantaire’s temple, and shuffles his way back to bed.

The moment the door is closed, Montparnasse says, “He is _really_ fucked up right now.”

“I’ve noticed,” Grantaire says, and walks over to sprawl onto the couch.

“I mean _seriously_ fucked up, Grantaire. He’s not thinking. _Do not keep this kid_ ,” Montparnasse says, following until he’s standing over Grantaire, looking down at him looking very serious and grim.

This isn’t a surprise to Grantaire. When there’s something wrong with Enjolras, Montparnasse doesn’t fuck around. Honestly, Grantaire’s kind of been expecting a visit like this ever since Enjolras showed up with conditioned hair.

Grantaire and Montparnasse aren’t friends, exactly. They’re better than tolerating each other, know each other far better than acquaintances, and have a _lot_ in common, but the best way to describe it is probably _support group_.

“You should’ve dropped the kid in Marseille before anyone knew anything,” Montparnasse says. “What’s he told you?”

“He wants to do a one month test run, keeps saying something about _obligation_ and _responsibility_ ,” Grantaire says.

“He has this blood duty thing going on, thinks you _must_ take care of the kid,” Montparnasse says, and sits down on the top of the coffee table, eye level with Grantaire. “The best thing for this kid is to get him far, far away from this.”

“I know that, I _know_ , but fuck, Enjolras just won’t _listen_ ,” Grantaire says, and doesn’t know if he’s angry or depressed or just incredibly frustrated. Probably all three. “He has _no idea_ what actual parenting is like, okay, have you even _seen_ where he grew up?”

“Oh yeah,” Montparnasse says. “I rob the place regularly, his dad’s pretty much the same measurements as me.” 

He looks very smug. 

Very, very smug. 

“Holy fucking shit, you’re not serious,” Grantaire says, because there is _no way_ he’s got the right idea here, but Montparnasse just keeps on _smirking_ and he can’t help it, he says, “How did you even - you applied to be a pool boy?” 

“You really think I’d need to _apply_?” Montparnasse asks. He obviously wants to sound offended but just can’t make it through the massive layer of smug wicked satisfaction. 

“Holy _shit_ ,” Grantaire says, and has to spend a moment trying to figure out what Enjolras’ dad would even look like. Well, he’s at least shaped like Montparnasse, and Grantaire knows whole family has the hair, and he is suddenly almost painfully grateful that he’s only met Enjolras’ mom. He doesn’t want to imagine what would happen to him if all three of the family were in the same room. Grantaire groans and scrubs a hand down his face. “You know that’s kind of fucked up, right?” 

“I’ve got _nothing_ on you, giving that kid a gun,” Montparnasse says, and shakes his head. “Just when I think you can’t get worse, you go and prove me wrong.” He scowls at the bedroom door. “ _Both_ of you.” 

“I know,” Grantaire says, resigned. 

“Then _do something_ ,” Montparnasse says. “All of this is making Enjolras obsessive and crazy.” 

“I _know_ ,” Grantaire snaps, and sits up for a better angle when he scowls at Montparnasse. “And what do you think I should do about it? Do you have some magical solution?” 

Montparnasse looks ready to strangle him, but says, “Alright, you want input, you’re getting input. What you should do is suck it up and just say _no_. Send the kid away whether or not he’s good with it. You can fix Enjolras later, get the kid out _now_.” 

It’s a simple, solid, reasonable plan, and Grantaire is pretty sure he would never be able to pull it off. Not with the state of Enjolras right now. Not with how Enjolras keeps on asking Grantaire to _trust him_. The fact they actually seem to be getting through to the kid doesn’t help either. He knows Montparnasse is right, but there’s so much more to this than Montparnasse sees. 

“But you won’t,” Montparnasse says. 

Then again, maybe he does see it. 

“Never expected you to, really,” Montparnasse says, and pulls out a pocket watch to check the time. “Listen, mostly my message here is that Enjolras is out of his mind, and blood doesn’t mean family, and deliver a little bit of prodding you to do the right thing. You won’t, but hey. I tried.” 

And this is why Grantaire will never feel like Montparnasse is a threat to his relationship. First is that Grantaire knows Enjolras would never leave him and is probably completely oblivious. Second is that Montparnasse wants Enjolras to be happy, and that means Enjolras is with Grantaire, so he wouldn’t fuck with the relationship. The third and by far most impressive reason is that Montparnasse is the type of person who weighs his options and goes with the one that benefits him most, and any idiot could tell that wouldn’t be Enjolras. 

Grantaire doesn’t know if Montparnasse is in love with Enjolras, or has a massive crush, or if there’s some other situation, some other foreign strain of love. But, after working together so many times, Grantaire knows that what Montparnasse craved was someone to trust. He desperately needed trust and loyalty and safety, and found that in Enjolras. 

Grantaire doesn’t know what to call that kind of bond. The closest word he can think of is fealty, but applying that to Montparnasse is just wrong. Montparnasse occasionally calls it _crew_ , but who the fuck knows what that means. 

Whatever it is, it keeps Montparnasse on their side, trying to keep Enjolras safe and happy. 

“You’re not putting Enjolras first with this,” Grantaire says. 

Montparnasse gives Grantaire a disbelieving look. “Right, because he’d be _so_ happy as a dad.” 

Which is a good point. 

He knows there’s more to this, but Grantaire lets it slide, standing up and not commenting on Montparnasse’s uncharacteristic burst of altruism. “Thanks for looking out for him,” Grantaire says instead. 

“My pleasure,” Montparnasse says, and Grantaire doesn’t even have to shoo him out. Montparnasse just slides away from Grantaire with his customary obnoxious wink. 

And Grantaire wishes he was surprised when Montparnasse leaves through the window instead of the door, he really does. Montparnasse only uses the door if he’s wearing clothes too tight to climb in. Grantaire shakes his head, trying to dislodge any and all thoughts of Montparnasse in the process, and heads back to bed. 

\--- 

He wakes up alone. 

It’s late enough in the morning that sunlight is sneaking its way towards him, small shadows forming in the tell-tale untidy sheets on the other side of the bed. Grantaire groans and shifts, checking the clock (9:53 AM) before finally standing up and wondering what the fuck Enjolras is doing now. 

The answer is pretty obvious the moment Grantaire shuffles his way out of the bedroom. Enjolras is showered and dressed and has the laptop out, books and papers strewn across the table, and he’s so intent on his research that it takes him almost an entire minute to look up and notice Grantaire is leaning against the wall, watching. 

When their eyes meet, Enjolras looks guilty. 

That is never a good sign. 

“The kid’s still asleep?” Grantaire asks, glancing back at the guest room’s door. 

“I haven’t heard him move,” Enjolras says, which isn’t quite an answer but is probably the most accurate statement Enjolras can make. The kid might be lying in bed paralyzed with fear staring up at the ceiling. Or, he might actually be sleeping – Fabron’s been sleeping practically nonstop since they found him yesterday. They can give him a couple more hours, at least. 

“What are you researching?” Grantaire asks, because Enjolras looks guiltier and guiltier the longer Grantaire stands there. 

“Something…” Enjolras trails off, obviously conflicted, but obviously decides to just charge forward. His back straightens, chin lifts, entire posture suddenly shifting back to a level of confidence and determination which, to be honest, is far too rare these days. “Something personal.” 

Grantaire doesn’t even have to say anything. He just gives Enjolras a look that very clearly expresses the deep incredulity Grantaire feels hearing that kind of bullshit coming from _Enjolras_. 

“It is,” Enjolras says, almost offended while he defends himself. “It’s personal research, nothing anyone else needs to be involved with.” He frowns. “I do things without you.” 

Grantaire is tempted to tell him he actually kind of doesn’t, since he even tags along when Grantaire goes out to paint. Enjolras brings his own work to do, but the fact is that Grantaire and Enjolras spend probably 90% of their day together. He settles on asking, “Do you want help with your _personal_ project?” 

“No I do not,” Enjolras says, so firm it’s harsh. He lets out a long breath. “You should go paint or take a walk or something. This might take a while.” 

And _that’s_ new too. Normal procedure these days would be Grantaire just sits around while Enjolras researches – usually he helps, often he sketches, and Grantaire always makes a point of being slightly obnoxious. 

It’s also normal procedure for Enjolras to get a little _twitchy_ when they’re separated. 

Enjolras sits at the table with that casual self-assurance that makes Grantaire want to take it at face value and walk out to enjoy the sunlight and just bask in being _home_ again. 

“Montparnasse is worried about you,” Grantaire says, and doesn’t object when Enjolras gathers up his books and papers so Grantaire can’t see them as he approaches. If Enjolras wants to have a secret, he can have a fucking secret. Grantaire sits in the chair opposite Enjolras and scrubs a hand through his hair. Enjolras looks impeccable, and Grantaire has barely slouched his way out of bed. “I’m worried about you too. You’ve been-” 

“I’m going to be better,” Enjolras says calmly, catching Grantaire’s eyes with his own, and _fuck_ , he hadn’t noticed until now. Enjolras has been falling apart in front of him for almost _two years_ and Grantaire’s been completely oblivious. 

Combeferre was right. 

Fuck, Combeferre is _always_ right. 

“What happened?” Grantaire blurts out, asks the question before he even processes what he’s seeing. 

Something crosses across Enjolras’ face, something Grantaire doesn’t recognize and isn’t sure he wants to. “I remembered something that I never imagined I could forget,” Enjolras says. 

It’s obvious that’s as much as Enjolras is willing to give him, but Grantaire still presses his elbows to the table and leans forward towards Enjolras and over the quickly-closed laptop. “You _do_ know I’m not angry with you, right?” he says quietly. 

“I know,” Enjolras says. He doesn’t smile. 

Grantaire nods. “If there’s anything I can do-” 

“There isn’t,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire knows he isn’t trying to be cruel, or rude, or do anything but give Grantaire a response. He isn’t hurt. At all. This is just how things go. Grantaire had almost forgotten. 

“Okay then,” Grantaire says, and shifts back to his side of the table. 

He’s about to stand when Enjolras says, “Actually, there is something.” 

“Oh?” 

“You won’t like it,” Enjolras warns. 

“I don’t like pretty much anything you do these days,” Grantaire says. 

Enjolras frowns for a moment, and then says, “This wouldn’t be something I want you to do to change your mind or try to convince you. You should know that.” 

“You want me to watch the kid?” Grantaire asks. 

Enjolras just shrugs, a little bit of helplessness escaping into his eyes. “You do better with him than I seem to, and everyone else is working. If he’s here, he’s just going to be sitting around watching me do research.” 

“And sitting around watching me paint is better?” Grantaire asks. 

“At least he’d be outside,” Enjolras points out, which, yes, that’s a good point. Kids are supposed to spend time outside. Otherwise they shrivel up and die, like plants or something. “And if Fabron really objects, you can bring him back and I’ll deal with him instead.” 

It’s so reasonable that Grantaire can’t think of any reason to say no. 

There’s no time like the present, really, so Grantaire shrugs and stands, resigning himself to facing the day. He takes a quick shower and puts on a shirt and some pants he doesn’t mind accidentally smearing paint all over (and in fact already have a few quiet streaks and blobs of color on them) and heads towards the guest room. 

The door is still firmly shut, and after a moment of consideration, Grantaire knocks. “Hey, kid, are you awake?” 

The door has no lock, but Grantaire still waits patiently for Fabron to open it himself. It takes probably five minutes, but the kid eventually opens it just enough to spot Grantaire, and then opens it all the way. The kid looks completely exhausted, even after almost an entire day of sleeping, but he says, “I’m awake.” 

“Good. We’re going out painting, so take a shower and get dressed,” Grantaire says. 

“But I don’t have any clothes,” Fabron says. His eyes go wide after he says it, and he quickly adds, “I mean, I have what I wore yesterday, it’s okay-” 

“Calm down, we can have something for you to wear when you’re out of the shower,” Grantaire says, which probably isn’t very reassuring, but at least it gets the kid to relax a little. He frowns. “You should probably have breakfast though.” The kid’s been doing nothing but sleeping, after all, and that means he hasn’t eaten for a long time. 

The kid hesitates, clutching at the doorknob he still hasn’t released. He looks ready to argue, but finally nods and steps out of the room, quickly closing the door behind him. 

Enjolras and Courfeyrac stuck the kid in a shirt so big it makes him look about five years old and covers him down to his knees. The shirt’s way too big for Enjolras or Grantaire, so he has no idea where it came from, but desperate times and all that. Grantaire doesn’t let himself look at the bruises. 

He does his best to smile, nice and friendly and approachable as he leads the kid into the kitchen and decides a bowl of cereal is a good way to start off. It’s not lost on Grantaire that the kid immediately relaxes when he sees there’s nobody else but Enjolras in the apartment. 

“I overheard the situation. It should’ve occurred to me earlier,” Enjolras says. All of the books and papers are neatly tucked away somewhere the kid can’t see. “It’s being taken-” 

“Oh for fuck’s sake, he ate all of the marshmallows!” Grantaire shouts, scowling into the newly bland cereal box. 

When he turns around to try and convince Enjolras _again_ that they need to find some way to keep Montparnasse out of the pantry, the kid’s standing completely rigid, staring at nothing. 

So, no more shouting when the kid’s around. 

Enjolras is too intent on the laptop to notice, and Grantaire can see that the kid is trying to get his breathing under control, so Grantaire turns back to the cereal bowl. If they can’t have the cereal’s marshmallows, Grantaire can just pop _actual_ marshmallows into it. They only have the giant puffy size, and it sits on top of the milk-covered mess looking completely out of place, but it works. 

“Are you doing okay now?” Grantaire asks the kid when he’s fetched spoons. 

Fabron gives Grantaire a shaky nod. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Grantaire asks. 

Fabron shakes his head so firmly Grantaire worries he’ll snap his own neck. 

“Works for me,” Grantaire says, and hands the kid his bowl of cereal while keeping his own and heading to the table. He sits across from Enjolras, his back to the door, and watches Fabron sit next to Enjolras and poke carefully at his cereal. Grantaire sort of expected that, which is why he got himself the same exact thing and eats it without comment. The kid takes his time about it, but eventually he takes the risk and eats. 

It’s silent, which means Enjolras has to speak up. He says, “Where are you planning to go?” 

“I haven’t decided yet,” Grantaire says, and looks over at the kid. “Do you have any suggestions?” 

“No,” Fabron says. 

“There must be _something_ you want to see,” Enjolras says. 

It takes a few spoonfuls of cereal, but eventually the kid says, “Birds.” It’s so timid it’s almost a question. 

“I can manage that,” Grantaire says, and the kid looks so relieved it hurts. He pulls his phone out and starts figuring out how he’s going to actually manage that. There’s always pigeons, but he doubts that’s what Fabron is looking for. “Birds are fun. Any kind of bird in particular?” 

“Hawks, eagles, falcons. Birds that eat other birds,” Fabron says. 

It’s more words strung together than Grantaire can ever remember hearing out of the kid’s mouth. He looks _excited_ , a spark of eager life in his eyes. Grantaire might even go so far as to say he almost looks like a real boy. 

“Why do you like birds of prey so much?” Enjolras asks. 

“Have you ever seen birds hunting?” Fabron asks, but obviously doesn’t want an answer because he keeps on going. “They just hang there waiting in the air and then they tuck in their wings and swoop down, it’s great. I don’t know how they can do that without breaking their bones – birds have hollow bones so they weigh less and can fly. And I want to see owls but they’re always out at night and they’re too quiet for me to find. Did you know they can turn their heads around? I want to see that too.” 

Of all the things Grantaire thought the kid could be, an amateur ornithologist isn’t one of them. 

Enjolras drags the life out of Fabron so easily that Grantaire doesn’t have to contribute anything more than the occasional interested noise while he tries to figure out where the fuck you find an _eagle_ in Paris. The kid obviously wants a wild flying one, preferably hungry. 

And speaking of hungry, the more the kid talks, the more the kid eats. It’s a hilarious mess that leaves milk and cereal slopped all over the floor and table when he starts trying to talk with his hands when he’s still holding a full spoon of breakfast. By the time Fabron’s actually finished his breakfast, he’s almost _smiling_ , and when Enjolras shoos him off to shower he leaves with a little bounce in his step. 

“We can manage a month,” Enjolras says. 

“We can,” Grantaire agrees. “But we _shouldn’t_. This is only lasting until Combeferre finds a place for him.” 

Enjolras opens his mouth, and then closes it. He lets out a slow breath and says, “I wish you would reconsider. The month trial period would be to help you make a decision, and I still think it’s the best solution to the problem right now. Regardless, we _are_ in charge of Fabron right now, even if we do send him away.” 

“There’s no sending away, Enjolras, there’s giving him a _home_ ,” Grantaire says, because he thought Enjolras understood this. He could _swear_ Enjolras was in agreement with him before they came home. Whatever Enjolras is keeping from him, it’s big enough that it changed Enjolras’ decision entirely. “And that’s not even starting on the idea that we get to make sure he goes to a _good_ home, one that can take care of him and love him and be good parents to him. Can you even imagine what that could be like? We have enough influence that we could get him the _perfect_ family. We could find an ornithologist-psychiatrist couple for him and just let him run free.” 

And oh, Enjolras does _not_ look happy. Grantaire watches the internal struggle through the twitch in his jaw and the brief seconds of scowling Enjolras quickly covers up. He’s all deep breaths and closed eyes. “Please don’t make this decision so quickly,” he says oh so carefully, like he’s tiptoeing through landmines. “You – we – fuck, _I_ feel responsible for him.” 

“Because of this thing you won’t tell me,” Grantaire says. 

“ _Yes_ ,” Enjolras breathes out, like he wasn’t sure Grantaire understood. He leans urgently across the table, staring straight into Grantaire’s eyes almost desperately. “Yes, that is _exactly_ why, Grantaire, please just-” 

The door bangs open, and Grantaire is just about to reach for a knife before he hears a depressingly familiar voice say, “Wish I’d had more time, but I got your shit.” 

“Weren’t you just here?” Grantaire asks. 

“Sure fucking was,” Montparnasse says, and Grantaire just has to turn around at the honest irritation in his voice. 

The first thing he notices is that Montparnasse has at least six garment bags draped over his arm, all suspiciously child-sized. The second is that Montparnasse is wearing an honest to god suit, with no sparkle or studs or flowers or flourishes of any kind on it beyond what Grantaire has to admit is a gorgeous combination of colors in the shirt and tie. There’s no visible makeup, not even a little bit of eyeliner, and his hair looks almost _regular_ , and shit, he was on a job, wasn’t he. Montparnasse has the same problem as Enjolras, where they’re too hot to actually blend in with a crowd. This is as close to unnoticeable as Montparnasse can get. 

“Thank you,” Enjolras says, all appreciation and sincerity, and Montparnasse looks slightly less pissed off. “I just thought if anyone could do this with minimal time -” 

“I get it, that’s why I helped,” Montparnasse says, and walks over to hang the garment bags on the open-air stairway up to the armory. “Just try and remember I’m not your boy and I have an actual life, one that doesn’t revolve around you.” 

Grantaire’s about to object, but Enjolras beats him to it. He’s practically biting at the end of Montparnasse’s voice when he says, “Grantaire is his own person with his own interests and choices and deserves respect at all times.” 

“Oh my god, you’re quoting something,” Grantaire says. 

“Just because it’s a quote doesn’t mean it isn’t true,” Enjolras says. 

“Christ. I’m not getting involved in this,” Montparnasse says, and doesn’t even bother saying goodbye. He just walks right out the front door. 

Grantaire barely notices, too busy watching Enjolras and trying to figure out what the fuck is going on. 

“Where are you going to find Fabron’s birds?” Enjolras asks, and it’s so clumsy that Grantaire’s concern ratchets up another few notches. The thing Enjolras always has complete mastery of is words. He’s usually much, much better at deflection. 

“Enjolras,” Grantaire says, because he doesn’t know what else to say. Grantaire isn’t the one who fixes things. He reaches across the table, just to press his palm against the top of Enjolras’ closest hand, just for _some_ contact. It never connects. Enjolras stands up and dodges smoothly, grabbing the garment bags and heading for the bathroom with them. 

“The shower stopped,” Enjolras says, as if that’s as much of an explanation that Grantaire could ever want. 

Grantaire doesn’t have time to say anything before Enjolras is knocking on the door. It takes no time at all for the door to open a sliver – one bruised little hand snaps out and grabs one of the bags, and the door is closed and locked once again. 

“There are birds in the zoo, but I don’t think that’s what Fabron is looking for,” Enjolras says. 

“Enjolras, tell me what’s wrong,” Grantaire says. 

Enjolras has both his arms under the remaining garment bags, and it leaves him hugging white and black plastic to his chest. He won’t look at Grantaire. He just stares rigidly at the bathroom door’s brushed steel handle. Everything in this apartment was chosen by Enjolras personally, for appearance and functionality and _security_ and he knows every lock and door, every bend in the metal, every slowly-widening crack in the wooden door. 

_His head is bowed._

Grantaire jerks out of his chair so fast it topples over, the legs grabbing at his feet. It forces him to stumble forward with a curse, trying to reach Enjolras. “Enjolras, please-” 

“I’m fine, Grantaire,” Enjolras says, and turns to shoulder the guest room’s door open and dump the remaining garment bags on top of the untidy bed. 

“You’re really not,” Grantaire says, and he knows it’s not going to work but he still tries to make himself into a human road block, standing as firm and rigid in the doorframe as he can manage when he feels ready to shake apart. Something inside of Grantaire is screaming out warnings. 

The rest of him is trapped with reality. Enjolras turns towards him with an unimpressed scowl. “Get out of the way, Grantaire,” he says. 

“Let me help,” Grantaire says. He reaches a hand out, a quiet simple offering that Enjolras barely glances at. 

“You can’t,” Enjolras says, and presses two fingers to the center of Grantaire’s chest, pushing him away from the doorframe like flicking a bug off of a screen door. “What you can do is leave, go paint, and take Fabron to see his birds. You can manage that, can’t you?” 

“What is _wrong_ with you?!” Grantaire shouts, and he feels helpless and _pathetic_ as Enjolras just looks at him with an exhausted resignation, like he’s barely tolerating Grantaire, like he’s some sort of yapping dog Enjolras is tired of dealing with and just, fuck it. _Fuck this_ , fuck whatever mentally ill parasite is gnawing at Enjolras’ brain, if Enjolras isn’t willing to even talk to him then what’s the fucking point? 

It’s been too long. Grantaire became comfortable, became _complacent_. He became stupid about what it’s like to love Enjolras, let down his guard, and fuck, it _hurts_. 

Grantaire doesn’t doubt that Enjolras is in love with him. If Enjolras _likes_ him is another monster entirely, one Grantaire tries to ignore, one that usually hibernates peacefully enough until something pokes it and the beast comes roaring out and slaughters anything good it can reach. 

He doesn’t bother talking to Enjolras, because there would be no point in it. He just walks away and grabs his things (and flask) and walks out saying, “Tell the kid I’m waiting outside.” 

Grantaire doesn’t wait for a response. He kicks the door shut behind him hard enough it nearly bounces back open when it slams against the doorframe, and rides the elevator down with his fingers clenched into fists around the strap of his bag. 


	2. Les Toits de Paris - Gendarmerie - {Valencia}

Paris has a cold breeze running across its rooftops, enough of one that Grantaire is grateful for his coat. His fingertips are used to the cold, still as ready as ever to weave through the air, to twitch his brush in almost imperceptible increments when things are just a degree off, just a shade short of perfection.

He tries to concentrate on painting instead of worrying about the kid just tumbling right off of the rooftop.

Enjolras tossed Fabron out with a coat, at least, so the kid’s bundled up and staring into the sky like he’s hypnotized by the slow, gentle circle his hawk is making. He doesn’t know how Gavroche knew where to find a hawk (a red kite, _Milvus milvus_ , according to the kid – it took him one long excited noise and a few tugs on Grantaire’s sleeve for him to actually get the name out), but he did, and here they are. The kid’s been enraptured ever since he saw the bird’s wingspan, and hasn’t said much more than _oohs_ and _aahs_ at every twitch the bird makes. When the thing landed on a nearby rooftop, Grantaire was worried he’d have to leap forward to make sure the kid didn’t try and run to it.

Grantaire tries to concentrate on the painting and not the kid and not at all on Enjolras.

It’s a beautiful day, just the cold nip of wind interrupting the sunlight, and he’s painting Fabron’s bird because what else is he supposed to do, and Grantaire is a fool who can’t help counting the minutes and hours.

12:01:05 PM, he tugs his flask out of his pocket and drinks. It doesn’t help. He didn’t really expect it to.

It doesn’t help for the next couple of hours, either.

He’s just going to sit here and paint the bird and maybe it’ll run out of Enjolras’ system or maybe Grantaire will remember how to not care. If he ever knew how. It was probably just a matter of being resigned to the pain, repeatedly hurt to the point of just going numb.

“What’s that?” the kid asks.

Grantaire knows absolutely nothing about birds that Fabron doesn’t. He pulled out the scientific classification of the bird just from seeing the pattern of its earth-facing feathers. Still, he looks over at the kid and where he’s motioning to a nearby rooftop instead of up at the sky. “What’s what?”

“ _That_ ,” the kid says, and he’s so insistent that Grantaire gives up and walks over close enough to see. He points firmly towards the other rooftop. “There’s something shining. It wasn’t there before.”

It most definitely wasn’t there before. Or maybe the sunlight just wasn’t angled the right way to be glinting off of glass before now.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Grantaire says, and lunges forward to tackle Fabron just as the first bullet goes flying over their heads, and Grantaire immediately slides them down the sloped side of the rooftop as shots whizz past them and only God knows what they’ll end up hitting. It’s a controlled slide, and it’s easy enough for them to catch their feet on a cut-out window and crouch down.

They have pretty good cover until their shooter decides to switch positions, so Grantaire isn’t all that worried. This attack was relying completely on the element of surprise. If the kid didn’t have such good eyesight, they’d probably be dead.

The kid is completely silent with a hand clamped around Grantaire’s forearm so tightly he’s cutting off circulation.

“Hey, listen to me. We’re going to be fine,” Grantaire says, and twists to the side to poke his head down and look through the window they’re crouched on top of. It looks like a standard bedroom, although too small for Grantaire to sneak through. Not without being _very_ precise, at least, and that’s not something he can manage if he’s swinging in from above. It is definitely kid-sized.

The bullets stop.

Grantaire’s pretty sure their attacker has a machine gun or something from that kind of attack, since there’s no way it could be more than one person – Fabron would’ve spotted them. This is a good thing, because Grantaire doesn’t have to worry about a sniper coming after them. Their enemy has to be situated a certain way to effectively come after them with a weapon like that, just set up to mow them down, and it’d be _very_ hard to manage that while Grantaire and Fabron are hiding out here.

“Okay, you’re going through this window and then you’re going to stay hidden. If the owner’s inside, just cry a lot – you’re a kid, it should work. Plus they’ve probably heard gunfire,” Grantaire says, and Fabron nods firmly, obviously taking the command to heart. “If they call the police on you, ask to speak with Cosette Pontmercy from Interpol and tell her I sent you. She’s my best friend and she’ll take care of you.”

“What about you?” Fabron asks.

Grantaire sighs, and can’t help the unimpressed look that comes across his face. “Come on. What do Enjolras and I do for a living?”

And that just cheers up the bloodthirsty little bastard like nothing else, his grip on Grantaire’s arm finally loosening with excited shining eyes. “Can I-”

“ _No_ , now get through the window,” Grantaire says.

Grantaire’s ready to have to sling the kid in, or maybe to have to do some sort of reassuring _you can do it_ speech or give him something to smash the window open with, but it is nowhere near necessary. In a move worthy of Olympic gymnastics (or Gavroche), Fabron grabs onto the ledge of the roof with one arm and swings himself down, somehow twisting at _just_ the right point in his arc to switch arms and come through foot-first, kicking the window open with a very loud shattering of glass.

Grantaire was not aware humans could do that.

“I’m okay,” Fabron shouts out to him, and it’s good enough for Grantaire. He can hear Fabron moving around awkwardly inside, the sound growing more and more faint as he moves deeper into the apartment.

And Grantaire is not an idiot. He knows the shooter is probably up there waiting for him to peek his oh so targetable head up into their sights. Grantaire also knows that all he’s got on him are knives, and that old adage about knives and gunfights is very true, no matter what he’s done in the past – things he could do because he already had a gun on his side.

Backup would be an _excellent_ idea.

His immediate instinct is to call Enjolras, but logic kicks in pretty fucking fast there – Enjolras is at least twenty minutes away, pretty much the entirety of ABC is busy with politics and not getting their heads blown off, Montparnasse would murder him, and hey, the cops are probably already on their way. He pulls his phone out and dials Cosette.

She answers within heartbeats. “Grantaire!” she says, so damn _pleased_ to hear from him that it almost makes Grantaire forget his situation.

Almost.

“Hey, so I might have a problem,” Grantaire says, and oh shit, he remembers. “Wait. You’re not still on maternity leave, are you?”

“I’m part-time, Grantaire, what did you _do_?” Cosette asks, worry and exasperation still buried under all the affection.

Grantaire scowls, looking around his very exposed hiding spot. “I did nothing! But there’s this kid and I’m – oh, fuck.”

There is something glinting to his right.

“Ohhhhhh fuck,” Grantaire repeats, and leaps up, fingers grabbing for the almost imperceptible ledge between flat roof and angled. He has to drop his phone to manage it, and Grantaire doesn’t dare try to grab it back. He plants his feet firmly on the metal and mentally tells that stupid hawk that it can go fuck itself for living on such a steep building as he finally manages to shove himself back up.

The first shot goes wide, by a _lot_ , practically on the other side of the roof. Which is important, because Grantaire isn’t dead and he knows this person is a shitty shot and also knows that if he gets hit even _once_ by a bullet that makes that big of a hole in the roof, he’s not making it home. He’s probably not making it more than a couple of steps, really. They probably changed weapons and have no idea how to use a gun made for precision rather than just mowing down the enemy. And that is very, very good news.

The only equipment Grantaire has on him is his ever-present knives, but if he can get close enough, he can throw one with a hell of a lot better accuracy than this idiot.

He takes cover behind a massive clump of chimneys, and the second shot goes high, making a _tong_ noise as the bullet crashes into the heavy pipes.

Really, Grantaire doesn’t have much going for him here. But what he _does_ have is pretty fucking fantastic, because this is Paris, and Grantaire _knows_ Paris, knows his way through dark alleys and tight streets and the curves and crashes of her roads and buildings. And that means he knows he can trap the shooter with nowhere to go if he can just force them five rooftops northwards. 

There’s no point in waiting around, either, so Grantaire quickly pulls out one of his most throw-friendly knives and takes a deep breath and glances to his side to see nobody and then pretends he didn’t and _runs_. It’s not easy on the rooftop, he has to avoid stepping on the slightly raised bars that keep sections of dust-blue metal hooked together and leak-proof, but that doesn’t sit very high in his concentration.

Sirens are growing louder and louder beneath the breeze.

It’s one foot in front of the other, shift left to avoid the antennae stabbing out of the metal, swerve to the right and crouch as he reaches a wall, the next rooftop just high enough that he’ll have to jump and hoist himself up. The shooter hasn’t attacked even once, but according to Grantaire’s mental map, the only way the shooter can go is either right where Grantaire’s planning, or down.

And that was disgustingly stupid of him to not realize all this person has to do is find a door or break through a skylight and Grantaire’s entire plan is fucked. He _needs_ to get some answers about this entire horribly planned attack, and the easiest way to do that is capture and interrogation.

He doesn’t have time to just crouch here and hope the shooter doesn’t hit him while he’s flailing his way up from one building to the next, not with so many potential exits just beneath their feet. Grantaire lets out a deep breath and does _not_ glance to his side and grabs onto the metal roofing above him and jumps up easy enough, scrambling up and dragging himself over the lip of the rooftop as quickly as he can.

There’s someone crouched two buildings away, a level only slightly lower than Grantaire. They’re clad in black, and from what Grantaire can see, they’re trying to fix a sniper rifle that’s somehow jammed – and jamming a rifle is _not_ an easy thing to manage if you know what you’re doing. Which this person definitely doesn’t.

Still, Grantaire is cautious while he runs, because he can tell the shooter’s reaching that fight or flight moment of panic. They finally just drop the rifle, and Grantaire isn’t _quite_ close enough, but it’s a scare tactic more than anything when he pulls out a knife and more or less aims for the shooter’s chest –there’s no way he could manage anything like accuracy at this distance, but he can at least try. He throws hard and moves out of the small amount of cover the chimneys have provided, running forward once more as he watches the knife miraculously slice its way right into the shooter’s left shoulder.

The scream is a very masculine scream. The shooter drops to his knees for a moment, turns to see Grantaire’s fast-but-safe approach, and gets back on his feet with another agonized scream, which is understandable. At least he wasn’t stupid enough to try and pull the knife out of his shoulder. He’s moving slower than before, and Grantaire takes full advantage of it. He jumps over the discarded rifle easily, and readies another knife just in case the shooter changes course.

It would be polite to shout _stop_ or _don’t move_ or something, but Grantaire doesn’t care. Not when he’s dealing with someone who tried to kill him, not to mention tried to murder a _child_. He grabs the rough black fabric of the shooter’s jacket and pulls him backwards, tripping him in the process. The shooter collapses, flailing on the way down to the metal rooftop.

When his back hits, the man lets out a horrific piercing scream as the knife is driven deeper. There might be permanent damage after this.

Grantaire gives him time to get used to the pain before crouching down next to him and saying, “You tried to kill me.”

The shooter just stares up at the sky, breath harsh and raspy. It’s extremely unlikely he’s dying from blood loss, so it’s probably a mild case of shock. When Grantaire snaps his fingers in front of the shooter’s eyes, he flinches.

“Why did you try to kill me?” Grantaire asks.

“The kid,” the shooter chokes out.

Grantaire wishes he was surprised. “You’re after the kid?” He frowns. “Dead, or alive?”

“We’re all just after his head, the rest isn’t important,” the shooter says.

That’s a weird as fuck statement, but the shooter starts trying to crunch his way up into a sitting position. Grantaire plants a hand on his chest and raises his eyebrows, just waiting for the shooter to realize all Grantaire has to do is push him down and that knife’s going deeper into his shoulder all over again.

“Who is _we_?” Grantaire asks.

The shooter looks confused, glancing away from Grantaire and then back into his eyes. “I thought you – you’re not after him?”

After six (well, four) years, there are a lot of things people know about Enjolras, and some they know about Grantaire. The number one thing that _everyone_ knows, what everyone’s known since the very start of all this bullshit, is that Grantaire doesn’t kill children. He doesn’t go anywhere near children.

This guy obviously has no fucking clue what he’s doing, or who he’s dealing with, but he _does_ know something about Fabron.

And something very cold trickles down his spine as Grantaire remembers Enjolras saying that he knows something. Saying that Combeferre knows something. Combeferre wanted the kid at the Musain as quickly and quietly as possible. Enjolras is _obsessed_ with keeping the kid, and somehow it would hurt Grantaire to know what’s happening.

Whatever the big hurtful secret about Fabron is, it’s something people are willing to kill for, and it’s going to get someone killed if this keeps up.

Grantaire says, “Tell me-”

“ _Hands up!_ ” someone screams out, and _fuck_ , Grantaire should’ve seen this coming. He obeys, slowly standing and keeping his hands up. More or less. It’s a lazy open-palmed salute at shoulder height as the police swarm forward, black ants on faded blue metal.

The shooter does not put his hands up.

The shooter scrambles to his feet as quickly as he can manage, rips the knife out of his own shoulder, and holds it out towards the police.

“Calm down,” Grantaire tells him, and then decides to be kind of nice by turning to the police and saying, “He’s going to need an ambulance.”

“Put the weapon down!” the police shout at him.

“I’m not going,” the shooter says, and oh shit, Grantaire can see where this is headed. His voice just gets higher and higher, rough and shrill. He stumbles backwards. “I’m not going, I’m not-”

“Someone stop him!” Grantaire shouts, and not a damn thing happens on the police’s side. They just stare as the shooter quickly backs towards the steep sloping side of the rooftop, and _fuck it_ , Grantaire needs him alive. He drops his hands and lunges forward, getting a hold on the knife in the shooter’s hand before he can get stabbed by desperate flailing instead of just punched and shaken.

“No, _no_ ,” the shooter says, practically screaming in Grantaire’s ear as Grantaire tries to drag him back away from the ledge, but the shooter is fighting with everything he has. It’s like trying to give a stray cat a bath, and Grantaire curses under his breath while the shooter tries to shake him out.

And then, out of nowhere, the shooter gets the sole of his foot planted firmly in the middle of Grantaire’s chest and all Grantaire can do is shout some sort of pathetic disbelieving denial as the shooter kicks out, _hard_.

Grantaire goes down gasping against the tang of filthy metal.

The shooter launches backwards, and slides right off of the roof.

He doesn’t even have time to reach a hand out, barely manages to even watch the black-clad fool go sailing over like it’s nothing but a diving platform with a warm deep pool waiting below.

Grantaire wants to start cursing, because he _needed_ the shooter’s information, but he doesn’t have time. Every ache in his body suddenly makes itself known as one of the upstanding Paris police officers decides to roll Grantaire hard against the ridges of the rooftop until he’s face down and the man’s handcuffing Grantaire’s wrists while keeping a foot planted on the back of Grantaire’s ribs, and he can barely keep himself from wheezing.

“On your knees,” the man says.

Grantaire _hates_ the police. Nowhere near as much as Enjolras, but enough that Grantaire’s immediate reaction is to be as much of a pain in the ass as humanly possible. But Cosette is around somewhere, so he just has to not resist arrest and wait around while she fixes everything.

Still, he sighs. “Sure, if you stop trying to walk on me,” Grantaire says.

The shuffle above him is awkward, but Grantaire just gets to his feet and stands unimpressed while the police surround him and swarm over the scene of the crime, as if there’s something still left to do.

“Is Agent Pontmercy around?” Grantaire asks.

“I don’t know an Agent Pontmercy,” the man holding onto his handcuffs says, terse and rigid, and needlessly shoves Grantaire forward, towards the nearest door that leads off of the rooftop.

“I’m not resisting arrest here,” Grantaire says, and he tries to keep the irritation out of his voice. He really does. “You don’t have to keep shoving me around.”

“Where’s Enjolras?” A different one of them asks, which usually means they’re a closet fan.

“Not here,” Grantaire says, and tries to find some sort of dignity while walking down the stairs with his arms stretched out behind him. “I was just up here painting when that _lunatic_ started shooting-”

“Of course you were,” the one holding Grantaire’s handcuffs says. 

“No, seriously, you’ll find all my gear on a rooftop about six buildings that way,” Grantaire says, nodding his head towards where this entire mess started. “Including a canvas with still-wet paint that’s probably been shot to shit. I’m the victim here.”

The one holding his handcuffs lets out some sort of disdainful huff-laugh, but Enjolras’ fan says, “We’ll determine that after our investigation.”

He wants to ask about Fabron. He wants to ask after Cosette again. He wants to shrug these assholes off and just fucking _run_ , but Cosette will get him out of this and all he has to do is be patient and _obedient_ and everything will turn out just fine.

Still, he has a potential ally in Enjolras’ fan, so he twists to look at the man and asks, “Do _you_ know Agent Cosette Pontmercy? She’s with Interpol, I called her earlier for help with the situation-”

“I don’t know of any Pontmercy,” the fan says, although there’s a pinch of sympathy in the words. He hesitates, but says, “Did you call Enjolras?”

It’s very hopeful. Almost eager.

Oh god, he’s one of _those_.

“Stop chatting, you’re under arrest,” handcuff man says, obviously annoyed. Grantaire is actually grateful for it.

They walk down at a steady pace that’s only a little bit excruciating on Grantaire’s probably bruised ribs, always just a little too hunched over for comfort because his arms just can’t twist like this comfortably. Not while he has shoulder blades, at least.

When they get out of the building and onto the street, there are police flitting around or just standing there not doing a goddamn thing other than watching him with curious, almost scientific eyes as they march him forward. Sirens and lights are still circling the door, and Grantaire doesn’t see Cosette, which is bad. But he doesn’t see Fabron either, which is good.

Enjolras will _never_ be arrested in Paris. Half of the police force is probably in the same exact fan club as the guy quick-marching at Grantaire’s side. They’d be more likely to come running to his aid than arrest him.

But Grantaire is not Enjolras.

He reminds himself _patience_ , and he reminds himself that Cosette will come, and he tries to keep his breathing steady and rhythmic, tries to match his heartbeat – four beats in, four beats out – and tries to not panic when they shove him into a police car and the door locks and Grantaire is completely alone.

Cosette will come, though.

Grantaire closes his eyes and breathes, and tries to block out the siren screaming above him as the car pulls on to the street.

\---

They take his knives. They take his wallet. They take his lighter. They take his watch. They leave him his flask and cigarettes with no way to light them, and they stuff Grantaire into an empty room with a tiny toilet and a concrete bench and a small high window that a soft steady stream of sunlight whispers its way through.

Cosette will come.

Grantaire just stretches himself out on the bench and keeps concentrating on that – this is Cosette’s domain. In any other situation he’d be panicking by now, but this? _This_ is where Cosette excels. And Cosette would never let him down, and Cosette knows he’s in trouble, so everything will turn out just fine and he simply needs to sit, and wait.

And drink.

He’s probably drinking too much.

But hey, it’s definitely past noon and what else is he supposed to do?

His mind keeps circling around the problem that got him here, keeps stalking the thought processes surrounding what Enjolras is keeping from him, and Grantaire knows that right now is _not_ the time for that. He needs peace and serenity and a refill of his flask.

A nap would be a good idea, but instead his mind latches onto the last time Enjolras did this ‘withholding information for your own good’ thing.

Valencia wasn’t a serene or peaceful time. It’s some blend of hospice and art project and a vacation gone horribly horribly wrong.

Enjolras had found them a small apartment with wide windows that looked out on the ocean, a place that took three flights of stairs to reach and two keys to open and was a mess of creaky wood floors and brown brick complimented by peeling white walls. There was furniture inside, even if it wasn’t nice furniture – a mattress and box spring slumped in the corner of the bedroom, a blocky wooden table with folding chairs and a loose leg, a couch coated in a faded floral print that was ripped deep enough in a few places to show the crumbling foam inside.

Grantaire wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but this wasn’t it.

Their life was _quiet_ , or as quiet as Enjolras can be. For weeks, they concentrated on nothing but refurbishing the apartment and each other, and it was infuriating trying to make decisions together – it ended up as Grantaire picking colors and Enjolras picking furniture and everything else was an indifferent, unnaturally tense argument.

Grantaire cried over curtains. Enjolras raged himself unconscious over kitchen cabinets.

None of it was about the apartment.

They did everything together, didn’t get out of touching distance for months, watched the ocean through sealed shut windows that Grantaire wanted to replace and Enjolras didn’t. Sleep went from clinging with wide open eyes facing anywhere but each other, to curled with a hand or lips on each other’s pulse, to a rough press so entwined there was no chance of escape.

Through all of it, through every single second, Enjolras watched him. It was the kind of watching you do walking on a crumbling cliff or under a dangerously overhanging rock. He tracked every twitch of Grantaire’s hands, every unsteady buttoning, every bead of sweat. 

And through it all, Grantaire never thought to ask what Enjolras was researching. He never thought to wonder what Enjolras was doing on their laptop, never even considered there’d be a need to do so.

Grantaire had forgotten that Enjolras is always three steps ahead.

Step one: Get Grantaire functional.

Step two: Make sure it sticks.

Step three: Kill the bastard who caused the problem in the first place.

Grantaire had still been working on step two while Enjolras was merrily plotting away at step three. Enjolras had been planning step three before step one even _started_ , passing Valencia off as a simple choice with no ulterior motives. No plots. Nothing but Enjolras and Grantaire.

It happens over and over and _over_ , and every time, every _fucking_ time, Grantaire doesn’t see it coming. Some pathetic little phoenix of optimism lives inside of his heart and it just won’t stay dead no matter how many times Enjolras burns it down.

Valencia was where Leclaire the idiot politician had gone to ground. And what could be a safer and more efficient way of taking care of Grantaire while taking Leclaire out than living nearby? Enjolras could just step out while Grantaire slept, kill Leclaire, and come right back with Grantaire peacefully oblivious.

But Grantaire couldn’t sleep without Enjolras.

When Enjolras had slipped out of bed, Grantaire hadn’t thought much of it.

He thought about it when Enjolras didn’t come back.

Grantaire had wrapped himself up in a robe and shoved his feet into his absurd fluffy crocodile slippers to avoid the midnight chill, holding Enjolras’ own robe as he shuffled through the door. He’d expected Enjolras to be in the bathroom, or doing that staring-at-nothing thing he does sometimes, or maybe asleep on their couch, or _something_. He’d expected something uncommon but normal. Instead, he’d walked into the barely-lit room to see Enjolras staring horrified at Grantaire, the suitcase with the guns in it spread across their kitchen table, fully decked out and ready to go, from the toes of his boots to the top of his fucked up beautiful head.

“Let me explain,” Enjolras had said. He was quiet. Reasonable. _Sincere_ , all heart and righteousness and so fucking earnest, so ready to share his vision with Grantaire.

Grantaire was silent for too long. Enjolras must have thought his silence was acceptance rather than Grantaire’s mind trying to decide how to react to this – rage, sadness, scorn, disgust, resignation; there were just so many great options to choose from.

“This is something I have to do. You don’t need to be involved,” Enjolras said. He’d leaned hard against their new kitchen table, fists pressed down against the lightly stained wood as his body angled itself towards Grantaire. “It won’t take long, and I’ll be back soon, and-”

“You just don’t fucking learn, do you,” Grantaire had said, the words barely audible past his suddenly labored breath. He felt like Enjolras was choking him from across the table, taking the air out of the room. It was as if Enjolras was empty and all of the oxygen was pulled away from Grantaire in the hopes of filling that hole in him. And _fuck_ , Grantaire wanted to breathe him in, wanted to just take whatever Enjolras was willing to give and ignore everything he took away.

“Go back to bed, Grantaire,” Enjolras said.

Neither of them had turned on the lights. It was nothing but the ever-present haze of light from the city seeping in through their sealed windows. After all this time, Grantaire hadn’t even needed that to see Enjolras clearly.

“This is, what, revenge?” Grantaire asked. He’d balled up Enjolras’ unnecessary robe, squished the cotton fabric together in one tight wrinkled clump. “Revenge doesn’t help, Enjolras. Trust me.”

Something strange passed across Enjolras’ face, something unusually desperate. Enjolras’ hands swooped upwards to run through his hair. They dragged all of that gold away from his skin with tight unyielding fingers. “I know that,” Enjolras said. “God, how I know that, Grantaire. But this isn’t just revenge. It’s justice.”

“And this time justice means sneaking away in the middle of the night and hoping I never find out,” Grantaire had said, keeping a hold on the robe and squeezing so he wouldn’t try to strangle Enjolras instead. “Not exactly your usual method when you’re after someone.”

“Things have changed,” Enjolras said. “Logically, methods must change too.”

“For fuck’s sake, Enjolras, who are you trying to convince here?!” Grantaire had shouted, and he gave up on control. He threw the robe down to the floor as hard as he could, hoping for _some_ satisfaction but getting nothing but the gentle splat of fabric hitting hardwood. He turned to glare at Enjolras. “You really think you know about how revenge goes? _Really?_ Because I can tell you _exactly_ what it feels like to watch them die, to realize nothing’s changed other than _you_ and that it’s not for the better-”

“I _know!_ ” Enjolras snapped, and slammed his hands down on the table hard enough that the suitcase shook. “Fuck, I know, I _know_ , but what do you want me to do? Ignore it? Be _merciful?_ ”

Enjolras is many things, and merciful will never be one of them. He said the word like it was some sort of hideous infectious disease, something dirty and disgusting, and Grantaire’s still stupid enough to love him anyway.

“I want you to reconsider your methods,” Grantaire said, because what else could he say?

“Meaning what, wait until sunrise?” Enjolras said.

“Meaning don’t go without me,” Grantaire said, and made a frustrated noise. “Why are you even hiding this from me, Enjolras? We’re married. We’re _partners_. What did you think I would do other than try and help you?”

Enjolras hadn’t replied. He just watched Grantaire in the dim night, rigid and unreadable.

“You aren’t ready,” he finally said.

Grantaire wasn’t the one who sometimes woke up in the night with barely-restrained screams and spent the next two days looking over his shoulder like there was a sniper hunting them down. Grantaire wasn’t the one who sometimes looked at people like they were something to dissect. Grantaire was _used_ to being a wreck, used to picking himself up and gluing the pieces of his mind back together.

He wanted to scream at Enjolras that _he_ wasn’t ready either, but it would go nowhere. It would help nothing.

“Then wait for me,” Grantaire said.

Somehow, it got through.

Enjolras crumbled, the steel inside of him buckled, and Grantaire wasn’t fast enough to catch him as he sagged down to his knees with a long deflating sigh. He was fast enough to hold him on the way down, keeping the transition from kneeling to sagging onto the floor a smooth, almost respectable shift.

“You don’t have to do this,” Enjolras said, and Grantaire couldn’t even try to guess at what he was talking about.

Grantaire just focused on gently pulling the killing coat off of Enjolras, fingers searching through the pockets that were far from secret between them. He disarmed Enjolras as delicately as possible, and Enjolras had simply watched. He _always_ watched.

“You don’t have to do _any_ of this, Grantaire,” Enjolras said.

Grantaire sighed, and said, “I have simple needs, Enjolras. Please don’t start reminding me how fucked up they are. Not right now.”

Enjolras was obviously conflicted, frowning his speech-preparation frown, and Grantaire cut it off with a kiss. It was simple, and calm, and reassuring, the kind of kiss you wake up to on the best mornings. Enjolras’ answering whimper was more suited to being teased relentlessly on public transportation, like he was almost in physical pain from one gentle kiss.

When Grantaire pulled away, the confusion must have been obvious, because Enjolras reached out to drag his fingers through Grantaire’s painfully untidy hair. He looked shell shocked, almost apprehensive. “I thought – I _know_ I fucked up again,” Enjolras said.

“You did, but it’s a pretty easy fix,” Grantaire said. “You can have secrets, Enjolras. You just can’t have work-related secrets. Don’t plan behind my back. Don’t hide your intentions from me. And _never_ leave me behind.”

“There need to be rules for that last one,” Enjolras had said. “I’ll agree to the others, but-”

“We can draft a contract later, Enjolras, just come back to bed,” Grantaire said.

And Grantaire had coaxed him back to bed and something close to sanity with kisses and whispers that turned into brutally slow sex that left them sleeping in a sloppy mess long after sunrise. Enjolras went into one of his mother hen fits of cleaning and pampering, and Grantaire indulged him, and they killed Leclaire together eleven days later with Enjolras holding the gun and Grantaire smoking passively next to the door while it all happened.

Grantaire didn’t have anything to do until they were walking out and Enjolras started shaking – not surprising, for many, many reasons. Of all the ways Enjolras could officially get back into this life, Grantaire didn’t know if this was the best or worst choice. The old conviction was undeniably there, but the emotion probably didn’t help.

Enjolras had said, “That felt like the first time I killed someone.”

Grantaire waited for more, but when Enjolras didn’t offer, Grantaire didn’t ask. Maybe he was meant to. Maybe not. Whatever Enjolras meant to happen, the opportunity passed, and it left Enjolras packing their things up in the same old bags, in the same old way.

They went to Odessa in the morning.

And it worked out fine, from there on. Enjolras kept him informed (or as informed as Grantaire cared to be – _more_ than that, really), and Grantaire trusted him.

It’s been over a year.

Grantaire just sits in the tiny room he’s been shoved into and focuses on the good. He thinks of their absurd domesticity, of politely invading their poor neighbor’s apartment and forcing her to listen to both of their twenty minute arguments over whether a tile floor would be better for a bathroom or if they could just stay with the hardwood, and Enjolras passed out on the plastic-covered couch with paint in his hair as they waited for the first coat on the walls to dry, and standing in the kitchen drinking coffee with Enjolras slumped over his shoulder biting at his ear and mumbling something or other about the casual plans for the rest of the day.

The concrete is hard, and the sunlight dries up at just about the same time as Grantaire’s flask.

_Cosette will come_ , Grantaire thinks, and curls against the wall.


	3. Gendarmerie - Jardin Privé - Un Bar Très Sûr

There’s a click, and a groaning squeal of hinges, and Grantaire has barely blinked back to awareness when the door opens.

It starts opening slowly. Then there’s a familiar voice saying, “Move, _now_ ,” and the door slams into the wall so hard that old paint on the walls rattles off just a little more dust.

Grantaire barely notices, because he doesn’t have time to. Enjolras charges his way through the door wearing one of Grantaire’s very old beanies, and it clashes _horribly_ with the usual red coat. Enjolras wastes no time whatsoever. He grabs the front of Grantaire’s shirt and tugs and just like that, they’re out of the cell.

And Grantaire’s just fine when he steps out behind Enjolras. He’s fine when they walk past a terrified man pressed against the wall and Enjolras grabs a small black bag from the floor. He is. It’s not until he sees the mass of police standing around staring at them that Grantaire starts to freak the fuck out.

“Oh shit,” Grantaire whispers, breath coming fast and shallow.

Enjolras stops walking the moment Grantaire says it, pivoting smoothly and keeping his grip on Grantaire’s shirt, forcing Grantaire to look at nothing but Enjolras’ face. “Now is not the time, Grantaire,” he says, using the methodical and dangerously quiet voice that means Enjolras is about five seconds from killing someone for _personal_ reasons. “If you panic, I’m not sure if I can maintain my control.”

Any and all thoughts of panic switch from the danger the police present, to the danger _Enjolras_ presents. He’s in the red coat, and Grantaire can recognize the small hints of armament beneath.

And Enjolras fucking _hates_ police.

Grantaire isn’t exactly a fan of them either, but that’s not the important thing right now. This right here is Grantaire’s _real_ job. It’s incredibly rare that he has to do it these days, but Grantaire’s job is to protect Enjolras, and that means protecting Enjolras from himself too.

So, he nods, and suddenly this is all a job. He regrets that he’s a little bit tipsy, but it’s not like he knew this was going to happen. Besides, it’s only a _little_ \- he can see straight and walk straight and he's plenty functional, hands cold but steady. “Do you have my stuff?” Grantaire asks.

Enjolras answers by lifting the black bag in the hand not occupied with keeping a quickly-tightening grip on Grantaire’s shirt. “I let them keep the painting just for practicality's sake, but if you want it-”

“Fuck no, it was awful. We’re fine, let’s just go home,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras obviously doesn’t look happy with Grantaire’s disparaging remark, but he turns around anyway and starts leading them through the police station.

It’s not nearly as scary to walk through a mob of police when the staring is the kind of thing you get when a wolf pads across their path.

“How’d you get in here, again?” Grantaire asks.

The silence he gets in return isn’t exactly comforting. Still, there’s no blood or corpses, so it can’t be _that_ bad.

Honestly, it’s all going amazingly smoothly up until they reach the door and Enjolras’ fan is standing anxiously in front of the door. Normally this would be fine and he’d leave Enjolras to bite and flounder his way through infamy all on his own, but every time Enjolras glances back at him, Grantaire can see how on edge he is. There was something unhinged in him this morning, and this has undoubtedly made it even worse, and no. _Fuck_ no, this is not the time to put a fan – a _police_ fan, no less – in Enjolras’ way.

“Hold on fora second,” Grantaire says, prying Enjolras’ index finger off of his shirt before they can reach Enjolras’ fan. Enjolras stops, making a displeased noise full of frustration that Grantaire isn’t going to bother with right now, and Grantaire takes the opportunity to pluck the black bag out of Enjolras’ hands and sling it over his own shoulder. He moves, takes Enjolras’ hand in his own, and nods. That’s enough for Enjolras. He starts not quite dragging Grantaire along towards the door again.

This was done for strategic reasons. First, Enjolras now has an empty hand, and Grantaire doesn’t. Second, it looks less like Grantaire’s being abducted and the press is fucking insane and who the fuck knows what they’d do with the image if someone took a picture of Enjolras dragging him around.

And third, and _most importantly_ , Grantaire raises their joined hands to his lips and kisses the top of Enjolras’ hand, light and quick. It makes Enjolras do what he always does – he turns just enough to look at Grantaire, smiling at him for moment before going back to whatever he was doing before. It’s a brief smile, but it never stops making Grantaire’s heart twist, warm and sweet and completely helpless.

When Enjolras has turned to face their destination again, Grantaire looks straight at Enjolras’ fan and pours every single drop of smug disdain he has for the poor bastard into his unimpressed glance.

The way the guy’s face crumples isn’t as satisfying as it would be to see Enjolras rip the police guy apart verbally (and unknowingly emotionally), but it gets them out the door with no major conflicts. If that isn’t a victory, Grantaire doesn’t know what is.

It’s true night outside, with the lights of the city glowing in large enough numbers that it’s as bright as a cloudy day on the sidewalk Enjolras keeps dragging him down. Paris traded the stars for street lamps, and in moments like this, where the light seems almost blinding, Grantaire isn’t sure if he’s happy with the exchange.

“Are you alright?” Enjolras asks, and veers down a much smaller street that Grantaire might call an alley if not for the flower boxes peppering the windowsills above them. He stops them directly under a street lamp, dropping Grantaire’s hand to press at a tender spot on Grantaire’s cheek. “Did they hurt you?”

“I’m fine, Enjolras,” Grantaire says, and bats his hand away when he starts to _really_ push on the quickly-forming bruise. It works as well as he expected. Enjolras stops poking at the bruise, but keeps on hovering. He doesn’t touch, though. Grantaire groans, and leans his head against the plaster behind him. “Fuck. What time is-”

“Please let me kiss you,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire's jaw drops like a cartoon rabbit.

This is the first time in _four years_ that Enjolras has asked for _anything_. He waits around being as obvious as he feels is appropriate (which is usually really fucking obvious) and won’t do anything more than a polite respectful touch unless Grantaire starts it. Grantaire has actually explicitly requested that he stop being so ‘patient’ and he's done it _repeatedly_ and it went nowhere beyond increased cuddling contact and Enjolras calming down a little bit.

This is Enjolras explicitly requesting a kiss out of _nowhere_. This is Enjolras wearing a stretched out old beanie with something terrifying in his eyes, and Grantaire has no idea what he’s dealing with. Everyone is right. Enjolras is incredibly fucked up right now, and Grantaire has _no idea_ how to fix it.

His automatic reaction is to just say yes, to give Enjolras anything and everything he could want, maybe even encourage him to ask for things again.

But Grantaire knows there’s something Enjolras isn’t telling him, remembers that there’s _something else_ , some plan or plot that he’s kept from Grantaire even after explicitly promising to never do so ever again, and he hesitates.

Grantaire must hesitate for too long, because Enjolras steps away, face a smooth impassive marble as he says, “That was out of line. I -”

“Any other time, I would’ve been so happy about this,” Grantaire says, and grabs onto the lapels of Enjolras’ coat. “I would’ve been so fucking happy, Enjolras, but I _know_ you’re keeping something from me. You’re hiding something from me. Something important. Something you don’t even want me thinking about.”

For a moment, there’s nothing but the midnight sounds of the city and the intensity of Enjolras’ eyes on his and Grantaire feels like they’re trapped in this horrible moment while the world moves on without them.

“I am,” Enjolras says.

His voice doesn’t shake. He’s unrepentant, not even thinking of apologizing.

Grantaire didn’t expect anything else, really. He’s Enjolras. Enjolras doesn’t do regret, not like other people.

Enjolras’ voice doesn’t shake, but his body does. It’s the kind of subdued full-body shudders that remind Grantaire of addicts curled up alone on a cold floor. But Enjolras takes a deep breath in, closes his eyes for a moment, and Grantaire has seen this before. He's seen it a thousand times. He watches that imperious mask of cool arrogance just fall smoothly into place, watches Enjolras turn himself into the marble sculpture that can take _anything_. He’s expecting a fight. He’s expecting Grantaire to leave.

He’s waiting for Grantaire to hurt him.

Grantaire shuts his eyes, and really, they’re both fools. This was pointless. There was no other way this could go.

“Kiss me,” Grantaire says.

There’s a long pause before Enjolras says, “I think I misheard you.”

He would give Enjolras anything. If Enjolras asked, he would rip his own beating heart out and hand it to Enjolras without hesitation and then ask if there were any other organs he was interested in. But Enjolras never asks for anything – he simply accepts, and anticipates, and loves Grantaire in a way that is terrifying and deliriously addictive.

Enjolras _needs_ this.

Grantaire opens his eyes, because Enjolras needs it. He lightly tugs Enjolras closer, and says, “Kiss me, Enjolras.”

“But – I fucked up, Grantaire,” Enjolras says, as if Grantaire doesn’t know, but he doesn’t resist in the slightest when Grantaire pulls him closer. He doesn’t touch, though. He just looks confused. “I know I fucked up, I knew before I even-”

“It can wait,” Grantaire says. And, because it has to be about _Grantaire_ , he says, “I just spent only God knows how many hours locked up by the police, I don’t want to be angry right now. I don’t want to feel hurt or angry or upset, I don’t want to deal with this, I just want _you_ , and _us_ , and everything else can fucking _wait_.”

Enjolras still doesn’t move, and he’s too smart, he’s _far_ too smart, so Grantaire slides his hands up from the lapels of Enjolras’ coat until he can brush fingers against Enjolras’ bare neck. Grantaire pushes his thumbs down lightly against Enjolras’ pulse, lacing his fingers together around the back of his neck, and says, “Please, Enjolras.”

He hesitates, but raises a hand, brushing fingers carefully across Grantaire’s cheek and into his hair. It’s more like a gentle gust of wind flitting through his hair than anything else. Enjolras finally, _finally_ leans in, and Grantaire closes his eyes, and Enjolras kisses him. It’s a light, delicate kiss, his lips barely pressing against Grantaire’s, and then Enjolras is already starting to pull away.

Grantaire should let him go. That would be the polite and honorable thing, letting Enjolras fulfill the bare minimum and make his escape.

Grantaire is neither of those things.

He drags Enjolras back to him with the hands he still has curled around the back of his neck, and there’s a surprised noise as Enjolras’ parted lips meet Grantaire’s in a messy, sloppy kiss – there’s no coordination to their mouths, there’s nothing but the feel of breath and pressure and a tease of heat. It takes barely a heartbeat, barely one simple clumsy drag of Grantaire’s lips, and Enjolras’ hand clamps into his hair, tugging like he doesn’t know what else to do, and _there he is_ , there’s Enjolras, making a rumbling hum against his lips as he takes over.

Kissing Enjolras is never simple. It’s never the same. There is a pattern to most of their kisses, though, a steady increase in intensity. There’s nothing steady about this. Enjolras’ breath is shaky, too fast and shallow between kisses. He keeps Grantaire’s mouth right where he wants it, other arm quickly wrapped around his waist and keeping Grantaire’s body pressed against his.

Grantaire whines and tries to keep up with Enjolras’ desperation, and it’s not hard – after this, they’re going to fight, and it’s all going to get fucked up and awful and Grantaire wasn’t lying about wanting to pretend everything’s just fine, just for a while. Just for long enough to hold on.

He reaches his fingers up, grabbing onto the hat because he wants to make Enjolras gasp at the perfect kind of tug of his hair, but it doesn’t happen. Enjolras grabs Grantaire’s hands in his own, and pushes Grantaire back against the unadorned concrete of the building behind him, pinning his hands down right along with the rest of Grantaire’s body. “No,” Enjolras says, firm and breathless.

“What?” Grantaire asks. It’s hard to think beyond the incessant pounding of his heart and the feeling of Enjolras’ hands sliding down to hold Grantaire’s wrists instead. “The hat?”

Enjolras doesn’t agree, or disagree. He just looks at Grantaire, and then closes his eyes, and steps back. Enjolras takes a deep breath, obviously trying to find his legendary self-control again. When he picks the black bag back up, Grantaire knows he's shutting this down even before Enjolras says, “We’re going home.”

Grantaire frowns, and catches Enjolras’ wrist, keeping him from just walking off. “What happened?”

Enjolras doesn’t answer. Enjolras doesn't even look at him.

“Did you ever consider that I might be able to help?” Grantaire asks. “Did you even _think_ of asking me?”

Enjolras’ jaw tightens, so firm that Grantaire can see the muscles tighten beneath his skin. He doesn’t say a word.

Grantaire is about ready to tear his own hair out. “For fuck’s sake, Enjolras, why won’t you talk to me about this?” Silence. “We were doing so good, what -”

“Find us somewhere private,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire considers objecting, but this means he’s probably going to actually get answers, so he glances at the nearest street name to get his bearings, thinks for a little bit, and hopes his memory of Paris’ quiet rooms and hidden spaces is still accurate. Paris is bursting with secrets, but some are very well kept. He hasn’t exactly been doing much wandering alone these days.

Still, there’s a couple of places, and he leads an unsettlingly silent Enjolras down the street, takes a left, continues for another three streets, and stops Enjolras in front of a big bland wall with a heavy wooden door and no windows. Grantaire tilts his head to the side, assessing the lock, and Enjolras wordlessly hands over the black bag. Sure, they could kick the door in, but people would hear and possibly report it and that isn’t exactly private.

It’s a simple lock, and he’s in barely seconds after pulling his gear out of the bag. He opens the door, and Enjolras is the first through, and Grantaire follows.

This place has always struck Grantaire as one of the most unfairly rich points in Paris. There are a lot of those, but it’s rare for them to have big private gardens with a fountain planted right in the center of formal landscaping. It’s all surrounded by tall grey walls on every side, excluding the one where the owners live, of course – that one’s covered in ornate windows, every one of them dark and abandoned. Enjolras grimaces, but follows Grantaire to one of the benches and sits down. He leaves plenty of space between them, and watches the fountain spill water from tier to tier.

“Isn’t it a little late to have the fountain running?” Enjolras asks, and he’s not _quite_ stalling. It’s more that he’s trying to keep Grantaire’s mind occupied while he gathers his own thoughts.

“I don’t exactly think they’re worried about their water bill,” Grantaire says dryly. Or the electricity bill. The owners decided it would be a good idea to have well-lit sconces hanging from the walls and decorative flood lights – it’s pretty much as good as daylight.

“No, I mean the time of year,” Enjolras says.

It’s that point in autumn where the world can’t quite decide if it wants to tip into full winter just yet. The leaves are gone, but the cold is still more threat than reality. Every pristine sculpted hedge in the garden remains a lush green.

Grantaire just shrugs and starts digging through his coat pockets, pulling out a cigarette that’s a little bit squished but still perfectly functional. The police were not kind to his poor pack. Before he can tuck it back into his coat, Enjolras reaches out and almost delicately plucks another cigarette out. It’s even more mangled than Grantaire’s, but Enjolras doesn’t seem to mind. 

Enjolras pulls the lighter out of the black bag and offers Grantaire the flame first before lighting his own, and then handing the lighter over.

For a quiet few minutes, it’s simply smoke and tension and the splash of water. Grantaire can be patient for Enjolras. He waits.

Eventually, Enjolras sighs and scrubs a hand down his face. “We really were doing pretty great, weren’t we?”

“We were amazing, by our standards,” Grantaire agrees. Always together, talking to each other about decisions before they were made, being some sort of partnership instead of Enjolras charging forward and Grantaire just following along like a very loyal dog – it was great. For them.

So why is it different now? What changed Enjolras into this unhinged creature?

“Fuck it,” Enjolras says, stomps his cigarette into the dirt, and rips the ugly old beanie off of his head.

Grantaire stares.

“Don’t freak out,” Enjolras says quickly.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Grantaire says.

“I can explain,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire laughs frantically, just a smidge of panic in it, cigarette slipping out of his fingers. “What, your head got caught in a wood chipper?”

Enjolras’ hair is a horrible, _horrible_ mess, random clumps of hair at varying lengths, one clump so short that it's close to shaved. Grantaire can see Enjolras’ scalp. It looks like he gave a toddler some scissors and said _go for it_. It looks like some crazed post-apocalyptic nightmare haircut. It looks nothing like Enjolras.

Vanity isn’t one of Enjolras’ vices. It’s never had to be. He wakes up looking like a supermodel, why would he bother to care beyond the functional aspects? Enjolras let his hair grow out longer during his experimental political phase as a _fuck you_ to the rest of the well-groomed politicians, and that’s the most thought Grantaire has ever seen the man put into his hair. _Ever._

“What the fuck,” Grantaire says again, because _what the fuck?_

Enjolras is obviously having some intense internal debate with himself, and Grantaire knows it’s probably a bad idea, but he does it anyway. He pushes the black bag off of the bench and slides close enough to run his fingers through Enjolras’ hair. The difference in lengths is ridiculous. Some of it’s almost up to his wrist, other parts barely reach the end of his fingernails, and there’s every possible length in between. Enjolras shudders as Grantaire brushes fingers across his almost-shaved spot.

“Do you actually want to keep it like this, or can I try and trim it for you?” Grantaire asks.

“I thought you’d want an explanation,” Enjolras says.

“This may come as a surprise, Enjolras, but you can talk _and_ have someone cutting your hair at the _same time_ ,” Grantaire says. He doesn’t add that it’s more than a little unsettling to see Enjolras looking like he belongs in a straightjacket and the sooner Enjolras looks a little more Enjolras-like, the better.

But, Enjolras is smart. He probably knew this would happen before he even took the hat off.

Somehow, Enjolras always has some sort of understanding of every twisted issue in Grantaire’s head.

Still. Grantaire pulls one of his knives out of the black bag and stands, tugging lightly on Enjolras’ hand to get him on his feet. “It’s not the bad haircut or the shorter hair that bothers me,” Grantaire says before Enjolras decides to pick his brain, and starts leading him towards the fountain.

“It’s that I went out of control,” Enjolras says simply.

Grantaire shakes his head. “No, that’s not – well, a little bit, but it’s mostly that you don’t like it,” he says. “If you were all confident and dismissive of this poor mortal’s belief that it’s a fucking terrible haircut, I could probably deal with it. I could adapt it to be _you_ if I needed to.”

Enjolras nods, some sort of wistful smile on his lips as he lets himself be positioned sitting on the edge of the fountain. “Because you love me,” Enjolras says.

“I shall give you a world of sweet hopeless love, yes,” Grantaire agrees. “Put your head in the water, I need your hair wet.”

What Grantaire meant to be suggesting was that he tip back enough to get the falling water across his hair.

What Enjolras does is turn and shove his entire head into the base of the fountain, down to his neck, down until the water is almost touching his shoulders, and Grantaire’s mind goes strangely silent for a moment. And then he grabs Enjolras by the collar of his coat and pulls him back so hard and sharply that Enjolras barely keeps himself from toppling off of the ledge, arms grabbing at the fountain to hold fast.

“I was _fine_ , Grantaire!” Enjolras snaps.

“All you had to do was put your head in water and you decide to do _that?_ No. No, Enjolras, you are _not_ fine,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras just looks at him, quiet and still. It’s not cold so much as scientific, as if he’s evaluating a project.

Grantaire wants to walk away, wants to shout at Enjolras, wants to yell out _just fucking talk to me_. Instead, he waits, watching water run down Enjolras' skin.

“I know I’m not okay,” Enjolras says, and he’s so quiet that it’s hard to hear his voice over the water. “I know that, and I’m going to get better.”

“Alone?” Grantaire asks.

Enjolras’ jaw locks tight, and he looks away.

Grantaire has to remind himself that there’s a knife in his hand because otherwise he might end up stabbing one of them because he wants to fucking _scream_. He thought they were over this. He thought this was done, and they were past this secretive bullshit.

He tries to calm down, tries to remind himself that this just how it goes between them. Enjolras will always be Enjolras, and Grantaire will always be Grantaire, and they bring out the best and the worst in each other. To expect otherwise is nothing but self-delusion.

This is just how it is.

A slow, deep resignation settles over Grantaire’s heart. There’s no point in trying to talk sense into Enjolras. 

So, Grantaire steps closer and closer to Enjolras until he’s standing right next to him, close enough that when he reaches out to touch Enjolras’ hair he barely has to stretch his elbows.

He sighs, and moves just the little bit of distance remaining to stand at Enjolras’ back and start measuring as best he can, sliding wet hair between his fingers. “Joly would have a fit if he knew you stuck your head in there,” Grantaire says. He does his best to sound normal, although his fingers have developed a tremor. They're primed to jerk back as quickly as humanly possible. “Who knows what bacteria could be lurking in there, just waiting to give you pneumonia?”

“You don’t have to do this,” Enjolras says quietly.

“And yet, I am,” Grantaire says, and carefully cuts one of the longest locks to something more even with the mean length of the rest of Enjolras’ head. “Now, make conversation. Tell me the best thing that happened today.”

“Waking up next to you,” Enjolras says almost immediately.

“You're so stupid,” Grantaire mutters, and can’t help himself. He leans down to kiss Enjolras’ still damp cheek, and then goes back to hair-trimming, his ridiculous fluttery feeling of affection appeased for the moment. “Okay, the best thing I wasn’t around for.”

This takes Enjolras longer, but eventually he says, “I had a very good discussion with Courfeyrac.”

“Huh,” Grantaire says. “Well, I guess it’s not surprising that he could make time for you.” The hair’s starting to look better, but this is obviously a temporary fix. Enjolras’ poor head needs professional help.

Enjolras doesn’t even try to continue the superficial conversation, just stays still as Grantaire tries to make him at least a little better.

“You know I did this to myself,” Enjolras says. “Why aren’t you asking me why?”

It’s incredibly obvious that Enjolras was the one who destroyed his hair like this. Grantaire would be able to tell even if he wasn’t so closely acquainted with Enjolras’ hair, both before and after. Places that would be hard to reach are some of the worst patches, and the right side of Enjolras’ head is far longer than the left.

“Well, I figured you’d explain in your own time,” Grantaire says. Enjolras looks almost presentable now, more like he went to a beginner’s beauty school instead of a six year old. The severed hair is mostly drifting along in the fountain, although the wind took some of it. So did Enjolras’ coat, but Grantaire’s trying to keep that clean, at least. “I don’t know what you’re dealing with right now, but I can be patient, so don’t think you-”

“You were right,” Enjolras says. He lets out a long deep breath, and reaches back to grab Grantaire’s hand. He doesn’t have to look to find it, doesn’t even look to avoid the knife Grantaire holds. He turns to look Grantaire in the eye. “What you said last night. We’ve _changed_ , Grantaire.”

Grantaire does not like where this is going.

“And in some ways I’m glad, and in some ways I know it’s for the better, but, _fuck_ , Grantaire, I can’t even _breathe_ without you,” Enjolras says, eyes bright and scared in the false light. His grip on Grantaire’s hand is almost painful it’s so tight. “When you’re not with me, I’m – it’s not good.” He takes a deep breath. “But I need to be, and I can fix it, Grantaire. I have to. I can dissect it. I can be better. ”

The expression on his face is worthy of the madman haircut.

Grantaire isn’t used to being the reassuring one, or having to be the strong one, or the one who even makes actual decisions. He knows his silence isn’t helping anything, but he’s stuck flailing around in uncertainty – what’s he supposed to do? What’s he supposed to say?

He misses his chance. Enjolras drops his hand.

“I love you,” Enjolras says, bracing both hands against Grantaire’s skull, framing his face with shaking fingers. “Never doubt I love you, and I always will. _Always_. I want everything you are, from how terrifyingly intelligent you are to, _fuck_ , I mean _everything_ , Grantaire, even your obnoxious habit of leaving shampoo bottles upside down _right_ next to the drain, why the fuck do you do that-”

“Oh god,” Grantaire whispers, and his hands go numb. He drops the knife in the dirt. He’s held up only by Enjolras surging forward to keep him steady. Suddenly, it all makes perfect sense. Every horrible thing clicks in Grantaire’s mind. Enjolras is fixing this _alone_. “Oh god, you’re dumping me.”

“ _No_. No, I’m not,” Enjolras says, fierce and immoveable.

Grantaire can’t help it. He starts laughing, and his legs, his _everything_ loses strength as he says, “Oh, of course not, no, you’re just _leaving me_.”

“It’s not you, Grantaire, you’re not the problem, don’t ever think you’ve done something wrong,” Enjolras says, quick and firm, guiding Grantaire to sit down carefully. He ends up in the dirt, one hand wrapped in Enjolras’ shirt while the other is cutting off circulation to Enjolras’ hand he’s holding his wrist so tightly. “I love you so much, you know I do.”

“Please don’t,” Grantaire says, and feels like he’s drowning. He squeezes his eyes shut, can’t bear to look at Enjolras. “ _Please_ don't do this.”

“This has to happen, Grantaire,” Enjolras says. He sounds wrecked, and the hand Grantaire isn’t desperately clinging to is clenched in Grantaire’s hair, but there’s nothing but absolute certainty in his voice. There’s no way to stop this. “You know I don’t want to leave you, you _know_ I don’t, but we need to separate, if I don’t do something to fix this as soon as possible-”

“Then leave,” Grantaire says. He’s almost as surprised as Enjolras at the cool level voice that comes out of his mouth. Grantaire feels ready to shake apart or start sobbing or punch Enjolras in his stupid perfect face, but instead he just feels _done_.

When he opens his eyes, he moves his hands away from Enjolras.

“If you’re leaving me, then fucking _go_ ,” he says.

“Don’t do this, Grantaire,” Enjolras says quietly. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t move his hand out of Grantaire’s hair, doesn’t do anything but watch Grantaire with those stupid fucking eyes of his.

“Don’t what, hold you accountable for your own decisions?” Grantaire asks. All it takes is a single finger flick to Enjolras’ hand for it to be removed, and Grantaire hates the slimy crawling sense of satisfaction that oozes up his throat from the hurt in Enjolras’ eyes. “You don’t get to leave me and just expect everything to be the same when your inevitable _failure_ comes around. And when you finally think to yourself, _oh well, I always have Grantaire_ , you're wrong, because you _don't_. I’m not your fucking fall-back option.”

“I know you’re saying this because I hurt you and you’re scared,” Enjolras says, and he’s shut down. The only thing to be read in his face is the fact he’s turned himself into impassive stone. “There’s no point in trying to explain right now. You wouldn’t listen.”

“Astute, as ever,” Grantaire says, and forces himself to stand. Enjolras is smart enough not to follow. “But I am dead serious, Enjolras. This isn’t something you can just shrug off and pick back up. You don’t get to. I’m not letting you do that. I’m not letting _me_ do that. I’m not – I’m not-”

“I understand,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire laughs, and manages to shake a cigarette out of his coat. He needs to refill his flask. He needs to get _away_. He needs this to not actually be happening. “Oh, do you? Do you _really?_ ” he says, icy sarcasm dripping from the words, and finds his lighter, but his hands are shaking too hard and he can’t fucking light it, even _this_ he can’t do.

He doesn’t know when Enjolras got so close, or even when he stood up, but somehow Enjolras plucks the lighter out of Grantaire’s hand and almost instantly brings a flame wavering patiently in front of Grantaire’s lips.

“You still think I don’t respect you,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire can’t look at him. He just lights his cigarette and snatches his lighter back, turning to face the fountain that still has strands of Enjolras’ fucked up hair floating in it. “You believe I’m in love with you, maybe even that I like you, but not that I respect you.”

“Please just leave,” Grantaire says.

“I need something from you first,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire chokes on smoke, coughing from a cigarette for the first time in years. He turns to give Enjolras the most incredulous look of his _life_. “Are you seriously demanding I give you something so you can leave me?”

“I haven’t left yet,” Enjolras says, as if that was the real point. And apparently he believes it, because he grabs Grantaire’s shoulder and turns him so they’re eye to eye. “Swear to me you won’t hurt yourself.”

Grantaire raises an eyebrow. “You really think-”

“ _Yes_. Yes, I do,” Enjolras says, and takes far too much liberty when he reaches out and sweeps a thumb across Grantaire’s cheek. “I don’t just think about it, Grantaire. I have nightmares. I have _memories_. Swear to me you won’t do anything to hurt yourself.” There's something desperate and frantic in Enjolras’ eyes. “ _Please_ , Grantaire. Please.”

“I swear I won’t do anything with the direct intent to injure myself,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras does not look pleased.

“You’re not going to get anything better than that,” Grantaire tells him flatly. He’s already planning to drink himself to sleep, which Enjolras would probably call harmful, but fuck that. Fuck sobriety. Enjolras has been his drug of choice for six years and they both know it, and if Enjolras is disappointed in him then he can just fuck off and pout all he wants in a cold half-empty bed.

“Thank you, then,” Enjolras says. He clearly doesn’t understand how the whole _leaving your husband_ thing is supposed to work, since the overly familiar hand on Grantaire's cheek doesn’t go away. Enjolras trails his hand all the way down Grantaire’s arm, finally cradling Grantaire’s hand in his own. Grantaire looks at anything and everything other than him.

When Grantaire just can’t handle the silence anymore, he says, “What, you want the wedding ring too before you go?”

“If you’re offering, I wouldn’t say no,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire wants to _scream_ but instead he just fucking stands there like the fool he is as Enjolras traces gentle patterns against his palm. “I’m going to be staying with Courfeyrac, and I’ll have my phone on me at all times. I’d like to talk to you tomorrow morning, if you’re willing.”

“I’m not,” Grantaire says.

“I’ll stop by anyway,” Enjolras says. He raises Grantaire’s hand and kisses his palm delicately. “This isn’t your fault, Grantaire. You’ve done nothing wrong. This just – it needs to be done. I wish it didn’t, but it does.”

“Then fucking _do it_ ,” Grantaire snaps, and pulls his hand away. He steps away, tries to put some sort of distance between them before Grantaire can do something stupid like grab onto him and demand answers or beg him to _not do this_.

Enjolras doesn’t move. He just keeps standing there, and when Grantaire looks at him, he can’t read a damn thing.

“I just – why?” Grantaire finds himself saying, the words creaking out of his throat. “Why won’t you let me _help_ , Enjolras? Why is this your answer to your problem, why do you think-”

“You deserve an answer, but I can’t give you one yet,” Enjolras says.

Meaning that deep down, Enjolras has no fucking clue what he’s doing. He’s running on fear and instinct and whatever fucked up bug is gnawing its way through his brain, and he won’t let Grantaire try to help, won’t let Grantaire even try to _offer_.

Fuck this.

“I guess I’ll be the one to do it, then,” Grantaire says. He jams his neglected cigarette between his lips and walks back to the bench, grabbing the black bag.

“What?” Enjolras says.

Grantaire doesn’t look back, even if he can feel the pressure of Enjolras’ eyes on his back, like an invisible blanket of needles he’s more than welcome to fall right back into. He shoves the garden’s door open and ignores the way Enjolras calls his name in a panicked gasp as the door shuts behind him with a sharp cold _click_.

\---

The world is not nearly dark or blurry enough.

“It’s not like this should’ve been a surprise,” Grantaire says. “And hey, maybe he’s right. He usually is. Maybe this is the best thing for all involved.”

“I really doubt that,” the bartender says. She's pretty and Grantaire is kind of sure she hates him, which makes her just right.

“Yeah, that’s a good point, he really is an asshole, who the fuck should listen to him? Not _me_ , that’s for sure. Not him, either,” Grantaire says, and groans, scrubbing a hand down his face quickly. “What time is it?”

The bartender glances down at her watch, and she’s already pouring him another glass when she says, “Almost two in the morning. You really calculated this out?”

“Fuck no, I can’t calculate shit,” Grantaire says, and doesn’t bother dragging it out. They both know why he’s here. He swallows down the alcohol without even bothering to try and taste it, and slides the glass to the end of the line. “Normally I wouldn’t get outside assistance, but I _promised_ , so safety net it is. Really, I don’t even need to watch by numbers. I’ve gotten pretty good at not _quite_ killing myself over the years, you know?”

“Not really,” the bartender says.

“Temporary oblivion, that’s me all over,” Grantaire says. “Or it _was_. And then that son of a bitch just got tossed into my life and suddenly I gave a shit.”

“For six years,” the bartender says.

“That’s right. Six years,” Grantaire says. “Six fucked up years. We’ve been married for five, you know. Only four consensually, though.” He points at the bartender. “That’s important. If you’re marrying someone, you should let them know. Don’t be a creepy possessive asshole.”

The bartender sighs. “Listen, maybe I should call you a cab.”

“Oh no. No no _no_ , no, I promised and I’m not done and you’re getting a disgustingly big tip for this, you’re suffering through this and keeping me drunk but not too drunk,” Grantaire says.

He thinks about maybe putting his head down on the bar. He’s been lining up every glass in front of him, just in case he loses track. Which he already has. Mostly Grantaire likes looking at the way the bar’s ancient dim lights sparkle through the curves and angles of the glass. And if that happens to mean he puts his head down on the bar for a better look, so be it.

“Really, I just want to be alone,” Grantaire tells the bartender.

“You’ve spent the last three hours saying you don’t,” the bartender says. “Listen, do you want my advice?”

“Nope,” Grantaire says.

“Having a guy like this dump you out of nowhere makes no sense,” the bartender says, and leans forward so she’s somewhere near eye level with Grantaire. “You’re crazy for him, and he sounds _literally_ crazy about you, so there’s something else going on here.”

“I want alcohol, not logic,” Grantaire says. The bartender doesn’t look happy, but she’s a professional, which Grantaire likes. He likes that she doesn’t spill and she doesn’t tell him to shut the fuck up and she doesn’t decide they need to break up because it’s healthy and _now or never_ or whatever bullshit had been coming out of Enjolras’ stupid perfect mouth. He huffs out a laugh. “I am not meant for logic. It’s never really been my strong suit. Even when it has to be. God, sometimes he’s just – he’s so _wrong_ sometimes, and I’m so bad at correcting him or fixing him, he usually just gets what he wants, even if it's _terrible_. He was trying to talk me into letting him adopt a kid, how fucked up is that?”

“He wanted to get into _parenthood_ with you, and he left you?” the bartender asks incredulously.

“I don’t – he’s so fucked up right now and he won’t let me help,” Grantaire says, and oh god, he feels like he’s going to cry. He isn’t a weepy drunk, he shouldn’t be feeling like this. “He fucking _left me_. I don’t know what I did wrong. Was it me saying no? Is that what snapped?”

The bartender pours him another drink, bless her. “You said no to adopting kids and he left you over it?”

“Well, it’s this one specific kid,” Grantaire says.

And oh yeah, that was kind of important, and he should probably check on the kid since they were getting shot at and all. It’s just so fucking hard to care about things right now. It’s easier with Enjolras around, it’s so much easier and Grantaire doesn’t know why, it’s like he fills up the holes in Grantaire and then Grantaire can actually be a little bit human.

_Hah._

Grantaire groans, and sits back up to drink his shiny new glass with one hand and try to find his phone with the other, but then he remembers, right, he lost it when he was dodging bullets. He slides the umpteenth glass to the end of the line and asks the bartender, “Can I borrow your phone?”

“Thank god,” the bartender says, and quickly hands over a smart phone with the keypad already up and waiting.

Even at whatever in the morning, it connects almost immediately.

“Hello?”

“You wouldn’t happen to have a kid in custody, would you?” Grantaire asks.

“Oh Grantaire, thank god, are you okay?” Cosette asks. “I called Enjolras _hours_ ago to find out where you are but he didn’t know-”

“Everything’s just fine, he found me,” Grantaire says, waving a hand dismissively through the air. “I expected it to be you, but that worked too. He didn’t kill any of the police, which was a nice surprise, but he’s kind of-” 

“Wait, what about the police?” Cosette asks, like it _matters_. 

Grantaire nods. “I got arrested. No blood on the floor when he came and pulled me out.”

“There was no arrest report. I looked. I looked _very_ closely,” Cosette says, and Grantaire can tell it’s her detective voice. “Did they ask you any questions? Did they demand anything?”

“You’re so smart,” Grantaire tells her. “I hope you know that. You’re smart and so fucking _nice_ , Marius better tell you how amazing you are every single day.”

There’s a pause, and then the lightest, fondest of sighs. “Sometimes you are incredibly sweet when you’re drunk.”

“Yes I’m kind of drunk, but that’s a good thing right now – and I’m being _safe_ , so don’t worry or try to do anything or whatever. It’s all fine. The bartender is frowning enough for everyone in the city.”

“Should I ask what he did?” Cosette asks.

“He’s being extra terrible,” Grantaire says. “Terrible and _stupid_ and so fucking – Christ I hate how he can hurt me, and he just gets me all tangled up and now he just _leaves me_ and I fucking hate him. I really do. He’s being so fucking weird, Cosette, about so many weird things and I think something broke him and, right. The kid. Do you have him?”

“Oh, right. I think so,” she says. “Dark hair, blue eyes, incredibly skittish, calls himself Fabron?”

“That’s the one,” Grantaire says. “How’s he doing?”

“Not very well,” Cosette says, voice getting quieter. “He’s not talking to any of us. Fabron wouldn’t even confirm it was _you_ who told him to find me until I pulled out my wedding pictures, and it took another hour and my parents showing up for him to tell me his name. And that’s not even starting on how he’s had two panic attacks-”

“Eh, that’s normal,” Grantaire says. When Cosette is just quiet on the other end, Grantaire sighs. “Listen, put the kid on the phone for a second.”

“He’s asleep,” Cosette objects. “It took _hours_ for him to get to sleep.”

“Yeah, but he’s not really,” Grantaire says. “He’s probably dozing, and he’s definitely being quiet, but probably not _asleep_ , you know?”

“I guess you’d know better than I would,” Cosette says, pleasantly wistful, because she’s amazing and can see the humor in how fucked up Grantaire is.

“You should know I love you a lot,” Grantaire tells her. “You’re pretty great.”

“Focus on the boy, Grantaire. I need you here for this,” Cosette says for some reason.

It’s barely five seconds later when the kid’s absolutely one hundred percent awake and alert voice says, “Grantaire?”

“Hi there,” Grantaire says. There’s a desperately relieved exhale from Fabron. “Good job on getting to Cosette. She’s worried about you though. Can you cope til morning? I can’t get over there probably until morning. So I guess you better cope til morning either way, huh.”

“You’re coming to get me?” the kid asks, like it’s a complete shock.

Grantaire shrugs, but he’s on the phone, so he says, “Sure I am. It’s not our fault someone interrupted our day by trying to kill us. Be good to Cosette, she’s wonderful.”

“There’s a baby here,” Fabron says, like it’s some big secret.

“Extra reason to be good,” Grantaire says, and sighs. “Okay, I’m going home now. Safely. You be safe too.”

The kid starts saying something, but Grantaire hangs up.

“Is someone coming to get you?” the bartender asks.

“Nope,” Grantaire says, and dials again to call himself a taxi, nice and safe.


	4. Musain

Grantaire is just lucky enough that his taxi is driven by a man who recognizes him.

Just like every other person, every other worthless fucking person on the planet, his first question is, “Where’s Enjolras?”

Grantaire doesn’t reply, just sags in the back of the car and listens as the cab driver goes on and on about how Enjolras is _so_ amazing, how it was a brutal blow to progress and equality in France when he dropped out of politics and it will be a setback for progress that will take years to recover and blah blah blah.

“I fucking hate him,” Grantaire says after the taxi driver starts veering into the oh so romantic side of Enjolras’ legend, the one where Grantaire is involved.

The taxi driver just laughs the laugh of a natural asshole and says, “I feel like that about my wife too sometimes, but you just have to suck it up and fix whatever broke.”

He’s tempted to say _no, you don’t understand_ and start listing off Enjolras’ sins in order of how often they pop up and destroy everything. It’s so, so tempting to just break this man out of his little idealistic view of Enjolras.

Instead, he says, “I didn’t break anything. I don’t think I did. He just – he just _left me_. What do you do then?”

The taxi driver shrugs and says, “Then you beg.”

And then they’re at the Musain, and Grantaire pays, and heads up to Enjolras’ apartment.

Grantaire still can’t think of Enjolras’ apartment as _theirs_. Not really. Not completely. He believes in their joint finances, accepts their partnership in pretty much everything, but it’ll always be Enjolras’ apartment. The only real differences since Grantaire officially moved in are better art on the walls and an incredibly messy corner of the living room.

The day that they finally decided they officially permanently live together, Enjolras had put all four of Grantaire’s relocated belongings proudly in the apartment, but it’s _four things_. And then Enjolras had taken one look at the ancient paint-smeared easel under Grantaire’s arm, tossed two armchairs into the hall, and declared the area Grantaire’s. He readily, _enthusiastically_ made space for Grantaire, but the rest of the apartment is all Enjolras. It’s Enjolras’ apartment, with a corner inside of it for Grantaire.

When he stumbles in at whatever-o-clock, he’s grateful it’s all Enjolras. He’s never wanted more than one corner for Grantaire-ness, rarely even wants that. He wants to live inside Enjolras, consumed by him, wants to be wrapped up in a knot so tight it’d take a sword to separate.

But Enjolras always has to keep that little bit of Grantaire separate from him, because that’s the right thing to do. His sense of right and wrong may be incredibly fucked up, but they’re there, and they’re infuriating.

“You really don’t know how this whole leaving your husband thing works,” Grantaire says, and slouches against the wall, dropping his coat on the floor because who the fuck cares.

Enjolras is on the couch. He’s stretched out, head pillowed on an armrest, watching Grantaire.

Grantaire really wishes he was surprised.

“I know I should be angry with you,” Grantaire says. “I should yell at you or kick you out or something.” And he really should. Instead, he walks towards Enjolras and feels more _real_ with every single slightly swerving step. Just looking at Enjolras is glorious. Grantaire has no idea how he could forget how the rest of the world is grey and lifeless in comparison.

“Are you okay?” Enjolras asks. He sits up. He is infuriatingly beautiful. Someone cut his hair into something almost presentable and he looks amazing and concerned and it’s not _fair_.

“I am drunk,” Grantaire says, and pushes Enjolras’ legs to the side so Grantaire can sit down on the couch too. “I’m _safely_ drunk, and I’m hurt, and I’m going to kiss you.”

He doesn’t really know what he expects, but Enjolras grabbing a fistful of Grantaire’s hair and _staring_ , all fire and glazed madness, was not on the list of things he considered might happen.

But then Grantaire gets it, and says, “Well, this will be interesting.”

A drunk Enjolras is a rare and intriguing creature. It’s uncommon, and varies significantly from sighting to sighting, but there are more or less two categories of drunk Enjolras – the affectionate barnacle, and the obsessive revolutionary.

It is very, very rare that Grantaire and Enjolras are drunk _together_.

“I’m not supposed to be here,” Enjolras says, tugging a little bit. “I know I shouldn’t. But I just – I thought about you. I always think about you, and I was worried. And I have a key and make bad choices when you’re involved, even though I know I’m not welcome.”

“You are so, _so_ welcome here,” Grantaire says, and means it.

Enjolras frowns. “But you said-”

“I fold,” Grantaire says. It’s going to ruin him and he doesn’t fucking care because Enjolras is touching him. “I crumble. I quit. I don’t need dignity or respect or whatever, fucking grind my face into the mud, Enjolras, I don’t _care_ as long as I have you.”

“Don’t say that. _Never_ say that,” Enjolras says, voice hard and stern even as he lifts his other hand to run his thumb lightly across Grantaire’s lower lip.

And this, Grantaire can do. He rarely does, if ever, considering all he really has to do is wink at Enjolras with the right kind of smile and within ten minutes they’ll probably be fucking against the nearest flat surface.

The obvious thing to do would be to suck Enjolras’ thumb into his mouth, but that’s not at all the most effective. Not with Enjolras. Grantaire wraps a hand around Enjolras’ wrist, drags his fingers up Enjolras’ hand, and presses his index finger down against the thumbnail planted against his lip hard enough that Enjolras can feel teeth.

“You’re drunk,” Enjolras says.

“I always want you and you know it, we’ve had this conversation before, please don’t start talking about consent,” Grantaire says instead of _so are you_ , and leans towards Enjolras. The hand in his hair is tight enough to almost hurt, and Grantaire doesn’t care. There is absolutely no subtlety to the way Grantaire slides his other hand up Enjolras’ leg. “What’s one more bad decision, in the grand scheme of it all?”

“That’s probably the worst argument you’ve ever made,” Enjolras says.

“But it’s working,” Grantaire says. He moves his mouth just enough to nip at Enjolras’ thumb, upper lip dragging over his own index finger in the process. Enjolras makes a frustrated noise, and Grantaire is more than ready when Enjolras presses his thumb between Grantaire’s lips, humming around it as Enjolras slowly presses deeper into his mouth.

“Sometimes I really don’t like you,” Enjolras says, staring at Grantaire’s mouth. He tries to compose himself, clearing his throat and pulling his thumb back, but doesn’t move Grantaire’s hand away from his own. 

Grantaire readjusts his grip to slot their fingers together, pressing their palms together. “I don’t like me either,” Grantaire says.

“I _hate_ that, I hate how much you hate yourself, I don’t know how to make it better for you,” Enjolras says. It’s some weird cross between anger and whining. The hand in Grantaire’s hair jerks him forward, and Grantaire is eager to follow. “You’re so…you’re so _important_. And you don’t care. And that hurts.”

“You make it better,” Grantaire says, and fuck it. He moves, ignoring the almost painful pull on his hair as he straddles Enjolras. “Anything, Enjolras. Anything you’ll give me.”

Enjolras groans, head falling back onto the top of the couch as he glares at their ceiling. “You are drunk,” he repeats, but the hand in Grantaire’s hand loosens, fingers scraping through Grantaire’s hair instead.

“Yes I am,” Grantaire says, and bends down just enough to press his lips to Enjolras’ very exposed neck. “And so are you.”

“I kind of am,” Enjolras says. “So this even worse.” Grantaire makes an amused noise, and gently bites at Enjolras’ neck, and Enjolras nearly crushes Grantaire’s hand with his own. “Oh fuck, Grantaire, I’m – this isn’t my plan, this is bad, I shouldn’t be here. We’re impaired. This is going to be so messy and bad and inappropriate.”

Grantaire slowly, _slowly_ lets his other hand slide up Enjolras’ thigh. “Is that a yes or a no?”

“It’s a ‘this is a terrible idea’,” Enjolras says, but Grantaire has his pulse beneath his lips, which tells him the answer clearly enough. The real question is whether Enjolras is drunk enough to let himself act on it.

Grantaire should probably feel kind of guilty about this, maybe a little bit embarrassed, probably some shame and a lot of self-loathing. The usual mix.

He _should_ , but he doesn’t.

Grantaire hooks two fingers over the top of Enjolras’ pants, and lifts his head so he can bite Enjolras’ jaw just once before giving the final shove. He presses his lips against Enjolras’ cheekbone, and draws back just enough for Enjolras to feel his breath as he whispers, “Enjolras, _please_.”

The hand in Grantaire’s hair stops its rough stroking immediately, going completely still. Enjolras is rigid, barely breathing, eyes shut tight.

For a moment, Grantaire thinks he might’ve fucked up and pushed Enjolras in a direction he really didn’t want to go.

It’s a deliciously short moment.

Enjolras grabs a ruthless handful of hair and smashes their lips together, nothing neat or soft in it, just a frantic heat that makes Grantaire moan against Enjolras’ mouth. It’s nowhere near long enough, it’s not _enough_ , and Enjolras twists their joined hands behind Grantaire’s back, pushing hard against Grantaire’s spine and forcing his body to press hard against Enjolras’ chest. It makes Grantaire’s shoulder ache. He does not give a fuck. Enjolras' tongue slips between Grantaire's eager lips and god, Grantaire can barely keep up and it's amazing.

When Enjolras pulls his mouth away, it’s to bite Grantaire’s earlobe and say, “We are going to regret this in the morning.”

“I don’t care, please, I don’t _care_ ,” Grantaire says, and tugs on Enjolras’ waistband. “Please, let me-”

“No,” Enjolras says, and the hand in Grantaire’s hair drags around to hold Grantaire’s jaw, forcing him to look Enjolras directly in the eye. He looks unhinged and flushed and beautiful and god, how Grantaire wants him. “Tell me what you want. What do you want from me?”

Grantaire swallows. “I always-”

“ _No_ ,” Enjolras snaps. “You started this. You _pushed_ for this. That means you have a goal. Tell me what it is.”

“I don’t know,” Grantaire says. He can’t remember a plan. Was there a plan? “I just want you to fuck me.”

“That’s not good enough,” Enjolras says, and lets go of Grantaire’s hand. He wants to chase it, wants Enjolras to keep a hold on him. He doesn’t mind as much when Enjolras uses his newly free hand to gently hold the base of Grantaire’s skull, fingers toying with his hair. “This kind of thing is never just sex for you. You’d never work for something surface level. What do you want from this? What do you want from me?”

Grantaire can’t remember ever once hearing this before. The question, he’s heard a thousand times. It just hasn’t been delivered like this.

What does he want?

“Keep me,” Grantaire says, and _fuck_ , that’s it. He grabs Enjolras’ shirt and feels like he could rip it, suddenly feels like he’s shivering in the cold. “I want you to keep me, I don’t want you to leave me, I don’t even know what to do without you, I’m – I’m _yours_ , why did you do this? Why did you do this to me when you – Enjolras, you _know_ this, you know it and love it and you’ve been there with me all this time, you’ve been here with me, and suddenly you don’t want this and you don’t want _me_ and I just want that to not be true-”

“It’s not true,” Enjolras says. “It’s _not_ , Grantaire.”

“What did I _do?_ How did I fuck up? What _didn’t_ I do?” Grantaire asks.

“It’s me, Grantaire, I’m the problem, it’s not you, you’re perfect, you’re so fucked up and perfect and I’m so scared,” Enjolras says.

Everything in Grantaire screeches to a stop, because he must have misheard that. He must be even drunker than he thought. “What?”

“My PowerPoint isn’t done yet,” Enjolras says.

“ _What?_ ”

Enjolras says, “I can’t get it wrong, can’t say it wrong. Not with this. Not with you.”

Maybe Enjolras is the drunker one of them.

Enjolras lets his head fall onto Grantaire’s shoulder, and his hands release Grantaire’s head to wrap his arms around Grantaire and just hold him tightly.

“Keep me, he says,” Enjolras mutters, and he _bites_. Grantaire yelps, because it’s so hard that there’s nothing but pain to it. Still, it gives Grantaire an opportunity he refuses to waste, and he uses the hands already clenched in Enjolras’ shirt to start dragging it off of him.

Enjolras doesn’t cooperate. Instead, he pulls away from where he’s abusing Grantaire’s neck and starts pulling _Grantaire’s_ shirt off, and Grantaire can work with this plan. He can definitely go with this instead. Grantaire pulls his shirt off quickly, although the joint effort between Enjolras’ hands and his own makes it clumsy work.

The moment Grantaire has tossed the shirt onto the floor, Enjolras’ fingers slide down his chest, and his abdomen, and start tugging on Grantaire’s pants. He clumsily manages to unbutton them and then fight his way through pulling the zipper down. Enjolras hooks his thumbs in the waistband of Grantaire’s underwear and says, “Off.”

It’s a double command, since to get his pants off he has to get off of Enjolras, and Grantaire fights the urge to complain. He just gets to his feet and the world’s tilting a little bit when he pulls his shoes and socks off. Enjolras’ unhappy muttering while Grantaire stops to take his footwear off is strangely adorable.

The second Grantaire has his socks off, Enjolras hooks his thumbs back in Grantaire’s underwear and pulls his pants down so fast Grantaire shudders. He’s completely naked, and Enjolras is completely dressed, and Enjolras grabs him by the waist and pulls him right back onto his lap.

“You are my very favorite thing,” Enjolras says, and rocks his hips forward, just enough to provide the tiniest bit of friction against Grantaire’s cock.

“ _Oh_ ,” Grantaire breathes out.

“Is this good?” Enjolras asks, slowly dragging his blunt fingernails down Grantaire’s back to grab his hips. “Do you want this?”

“I want you to fuck me,” Grantaire says.

“I’m not going to fuck you,” Enjolras says, even though one of his hands immediately moves away from Grantaire’s hip to slide across his ass. He pushes just firmly enough that Grantaire has no choice but to press tight and hot against Enjolras.

Grantaire groans and drops his forehead onto Enjolras’ shoulder. “Please?”

“You’re the one who asked for _anything_ ,” Enjolras says, but he’s a horrible infuriating _tease_ because the hand on his ass slides agonizingly slowly across his tailbone and keeps going lower. It makes Grantaire whine, and Enjolras sighs, almost resigned. “But you’re so fucking _desperate_ , aren’t you.”

“I am so desperate, I mean it, absolutely anything,” Grantaire agrees, and fuck it. He rocks back down against Enjolras’ obviously interested cock. Enjolras doesn’t even hesitate to meet him, just gets a tight hard grip on Grantaire’s hip and that _fucking_ tease of a finger is still infuriating and Enjolras is absolutely completely into it, grinding hot and rough against him and it’s so fucking good. It’s not comfortable, but god, it’s _good_. “Oh, please,” Grantaire says, and slips his hands between them to try and undo Enjolras’ pants. “Please, please-”

“Be good,” Enjolras says, some sort of chastisement that sounds absolutely filthy for no reason beyond that it’s coming from Enjolras and Grantaire _wants him_. Grantaire wants Enjolras and he wants Enjolras to want him right back, just as frantic and hopeless and trapped.

But he didn’t say _no_ , and when Grantaire cautiously goes back to trying to unzip Enjolras’ pants, there’s no objection. Enjolras just starts nipping at his neck, which is excellent. He refuses to help, though – even when Grantaire manages to get his fly open, Enjolras isn’t willing to lift up even a little bit.

Still, it’s enough that Grantaire can slip fingers beneath the fabric of Enjolras’ underwear and get a tragically loose grip on Enjolras’ cock. Even with the terrible positioning, Enjolras shudders, teeth just resting against Grantaire’s neck for a moment.

“This is not my plan,” Enjolras says.

“Fuck the plan,” Grantaire says, and does his best to drag his fingers up and down Enjolras’ cock. It’s awkward, but from the way Enjolras groans, it’s working anyway. And if Enjolras isn’t willing to undress, Grantaire can work around that. He slides a hand up beneath Enjolras’ shirt, pulling the fabric up along with him. “Come on, Enjolras, please, whatever you want-”

“Don’t ever say that,” Enjolras says, and actually lifts his hips enough for Grantaire to try and drag his pants and underwear down while fighting the urge to whine at the friction. Enjolras makes a frustrated noise. “You just – for fuck’s sake, Grantaire, look at you, you’re so okay with this. You _want_ this.”

Grantaire nods, and tries to figure out what to do next but just grinds down against Enjolras again. It works pretty fucking well. “I want this, and I want you, and I want it _so bad_ , Enjolras-”

He doesn’t have time to say anything beyond that, because Enjolras lets out an unholy moan and suddenly Grantaire barely has time to realize what’s happening before Enjolras has tipped him backwards until Grantaire’s back and shoulders hit the coffee table. He lets out a groan at the impact, blinking and sober but immediately distracted by Enjolras’ mouth, since he’s already kissing Grantaire’s cock before Grantaire’s even all the way down.

“ _How_ ,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire doesn’t know what he means. Is it a question? Does Grantaire need to answer? The concern flies out of his mind when Enjolras grips Grantaire’s thighs brutally hard and licks a long hot path up Grantaire’s cock and then wraps his lips around the tip, thumbs running circles across Grantaire’s far too sensitive inner thighs.

“Oh fuck, what are we going for here,” Grantaire says, grabbing onto the edge of the table with frantic fingers. And Enjolras doesn’t reply, oh no, he slowly takes more and more of Grantaire’s cock into his soft wet beautiful mouth and Grantaire whines because of _course_ Enjolras knows how to drive Grantaire fucking _insane_. Every single twitch of his tongue and the tiniest change of pressure of his lips and _everything_ is perfect, Enjolras is perfect.

Enjolras suddenly pulls off, and Grantaire doesn’t have time to complain because Enjolras’ hand is wrapped around his cock the second his mouth is gone.

“I’ll give you anything you want, fucking _anything_ ,” Grantaire says – babbles, really.

Enjolras groans like he’s been shot, a frantic gasping groan with a little bit of hysteria laced inside the noise. “Oh god, I know you will,” Enjolras says, and his hand stops stroking Grantaire. He presses his lips against Grantaire’s inner thigh for a moment, and then his forehead. He sighs. “Communication.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Grantaire says. Enjolras bites him for it.

“Here’s the thing,” Enjolras says, and stops talking to make a frustrated noise. Then, he shoves Grantaire and the coffee table away from the couch just enough that Enjolras can kneel on the floor instead of crouching awkwardly between the couch and table.

Grantaire is very glad he was already clenching down on the sides of the table because that could’ve been very, very awkward.

Enjolras clears his throat, and says, “See, it’s like there’s two of me, the smart one that just keeps shouting _you’re drunk and he’s drunk and this is not okay_ , and the one that wants to fuck you so brutally you scream, and I don’t like either of them.”

“Do I get to vote?” Grantaire asks, and props himself up on his elbows to get a better look at Enjolras. He looks frustrated and flushed and gorgeous. “Because I vote for the second option. I vote that so hard.”

“You don’t get to vote, right now you are way too serious about the giving anything thing. Right now, you’d let me go get a knife and carve my name into your chest,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire forgets to breathe for a moment.

“Oh fuck,” Enjolras says, and his hands run up Grantaire’s legs, grabbing his hips. “Oh _fuck_ , no, _no_ , we are not doing that _ever_ , calm the fuck down.”

Grantaire really does try to calm the fuck down, but still says, “Maybe just-”

“ _No_ ,” Enjolras says, voice a little bit strangled, and Grantaire realizes Enjolras was talking to himself right about when he makes a tight desperate noise and jerks forward and swallows Grantaire’s cock. 

There’s no precision this time. It’s inelegant, almost _frantic_ when Enjolras dives onto his cock, sloppy and messy and so fucking _hot_. Enjolras sucks so hard he has to pull off and gasp for air as Grantaire fights to garble out _something_ beyond strangled moans he can’t even get past his throat. Finally, he manages to say, “I know you want that.”

Enjolras likes owning Grantaire, and Enjolras is _still_ waiting patiently and hopefully for the day Grantaire agrees to bring a knife to bed, and Enjolras is so fucked up that he must’ve thought of this long before now, probably dreamed about this, maybe for _years_ , and Grantaire is so, so into it.

“ _Fuck_ yes, let’s do it, I want to,” Grantaire says. “That’s the best fucking plan-”

“No, this is not a good plan, this is the exact opposite of my plan, that is the _antithesis_ of my plan,” Enjolras says, and goes back to sucking Grantaire’s cock like his life depends on it, which is pretty fucking effective at cutting the conversation short. Enjolras is holding onto Grantaire’s hips so tight that Grantaire knows he’ll have even more bruises in the morning. He doesn’t know what to do because he can’t think beyond the fucking _fantastic_ wet heat he’s fighting to keep from thrusting in to.

Enjolras solves Grantaire’s problem for him, pulling off with a gasp that should be illegal (and probably _is_ ) and quickly standing to pull his shirt off and drag his own pants off completely with unsteady fingers.

“Do I get to vote for moving to the bed?” Grantaire asks.

“That’s reasonable and smart and thinking ahead,” Enjolras says, and holds out a hand, pulling Grantaire to his feet. He doesn’t let go when Grantaire’s up, probably even tightening his grip when they start moving – and it is soon very obvious Enjolras is the drunker one. Which makes sense. Grantaire was _safe_ and watching his level of drunkenness and also has a massive alcohol tolerance, while Enjolras is just, well, _himself_.

Before he has time to feel kind of guilty, Enjolras has managed to get them into the bedroom and doesn’t _quite_ push Grantaire onto the bed. It’s a firm shove to his chest followed by Enjolras pressing him down with his own body. Grantaire is left trapped between the mattress and Enjolras, who is already dragging their naked cocks together and breathing out Grantaire’s name against his ear.

Grantaire moans, and rocks back into him, and Enjolras is finally, _finally_ kissing him again, oh fuck, he hadn’t realized how badly he wanted it until Enjolras has his lips on Grantaire’s, running a hand through his hair as he pulls their mouths together. It’s delicious and it’s beautiful and it’s deep and _soft_ and when Enjolras pulls away Grantaire chases his lips and shudders, a full body shiver that makes Enjolras go still.

Something shifts behind Enjolras’ eyes and he says, “That’s what you want.”

“What?” Grantaire frowns, and Enjolras rolls off of him and onto his knees and _no_. Grantaire reaches out to reel Enjolras back in but instead ends up with Enjolras holding his hand, almost like he’s delicate.

“You’ve been telling me the whole time, I should’ve – well, if I was going to miss it it’d be now,” Enjolras says, and he’s obviously talking to himself again. He leans over Grantaire and kisses him gently, sweet and simple and short, and for some reason it _hurts_. “The whole wanting me to fuck you thing was misleading. So was the keep me, but I just got that wrong, this probably makes more sense. I was stupid and kind of drunk and I will do better.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Grantaire says honestly.

“You’re hurt and you _told me_ ,” Enjolras says, and shifts until he’s on his side and kissing Grantaire’s chest and this is wrong, this is so wrong. “That was the first fucking thing you said.”

“This isn’t what I was asking for,” Grantaire says, and he really doesn’t remember asking for Enjolras running a hand lightly across Grantaire’s side and he’s just so fucking _tender_ and Grantaire doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know what’s happening. “Enjolras, I didn’t-”

“It’s okay, I’m still leading,” Enjolras says, so effortlessly confident that Grantaire has no choice but to believe him, and pulls gently but firmly on Grantaire’s hair. It bends Grantaire slightly and brings their mouths close enough to kiss when Enjolras stretches towards him, and Grantaire feels completely lost. Enjolras kisses him like they have years and years and years.

Enjolras doesn’t pull away for air, doesn’t move Grantaire where he wants him, doesn’t – he just fucking waits and treats Grantaire like he’s the most important thing in the world. The way Enjolras’ hands move across Grantaire’s body is a caress, soft and teasing and meaningful.

It’s Grantaire who pulls his mouth away, although Enjolras’ lips never separate from his own for too long. “What are you – what are _we_ doing, you haven’t said,” Grantaire finally says. Usually there’s a rundown or some sort of fucked up list of activities or _something_ that keeps Grantaire from flailing around like a complete fucking idiot and-

“You don’t want me to fuck you,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire lets himself be manhandled however Enjolras wants until he’s wrapped in Enjolras. His arms are wrapped around Grantaire, but it’s _nothing_ like a hug. Hugs are for close friends and distant family and a quick show of comfortable affection. In this, Enjolras is hanging over him and pressed tight against as much skin as possible, holding Grantaire across his lap and just keeping him trapped and cherished and Enjolras just keeps on kissing his shoulder, and neck, and collarbone, and humming against his ear, and it’s too much. This is too much, and Grantaire grabs at the opportunity to derail this.

“I definitely want you to fuck me, Enjolras,” Grantaire says, valiantly fighting the urge to either scream at Enjolras or turn and get a leg over him and grind against him until he sees stars. “I definitely, definitely want that.”

“No, you don’t. Well, yes, but no. You don’t want me to _fuck_ you, and you don’t want to have sex,” Enjolras says, and makes a smug pleased kind of noise. “What you _really_ want is to make-”

“Don’t you dare say it you sappy bastard oh my god,” Grantaire says a bit too frantically, and Enjolras is horrible, he’s _horrible_ and has is bent so he’s snickering into Grantaire’s hair. “That’s not – we are _not_ that kind of couple, okay, we’re not some cuddly lovey-dovey – for _fuck’s_ sake, stop laughing, Enjolras!”

“You’re blushing,” Enjolras says, like it’s the cutest fucking thing he’s ever seen.

“I am not blushing,” Grantaire snaps and it’s absolutely a lie and this turned against Grantaire so fucking fast. He has no idea how to derail this…this _thing_ before it gets out of hand. But Enjolras is grinning against his shoulder, and he’s, _fuck_ , Grantaire feels like he’s been stabbed just from seeing Enjolras look happy and painfully beautiful and adoring and this isn’t okay. This is _not_ okay.

“It’s okay,” Enjolras says, and it’s undeniably a caress when his fingers glide up Grantaire’s neck and brush against his cheekbone and then slide into his hair, guiding Grantaire forward into a hideously sweet kiss, brutally soft and slow and gentle as their lips move together and oh fuck, Grantaire is shaking. Enjolras pulls away only to kiss Grantaire’s cheek, saying, “Shh, it’s okay, you’re okay, I’ve got you.”

Grantaire grabs one of Enjolras’ hands in his own and holds on tight enough to break bones, and he’s _still_ shaking, still freaking the fuck out when he says, “This isn’t what – I wasn’t aiming for this, Enjolras, I wasn’t-”

“You should _never_ be the one who plans things, Grantaire,” Enjolras says, and doesn’t even try to pull his hand away, he just moves their hands to hover near Grantaire’s cock, and _fuck him_ , fuck everything about Enjolras, who makes his gorgeous horrible humming noise and bites Grantaire’s earlobe and it’s so fucking good. Enjolras drags his teeth across Grantaire’s ear and Grantaire can _still_ feel that disaster of a smile when he says, “Your plans are absolute shit, so you should get what you want instead.”

“That makes no sense and I don’t _want_ what I want,” Grantaire says. Well, whines. He didn’t even know what he really wanted until Enjolras started ruthlessly giving it to him. “I don’t want this, I don’t want you to treat me like I’m. Like I’m-”

“Precious? Beautiful? Absolutely _perfect?_ ” Enjolras says, and shifts Grantaire’s painfully tight grip just enough that he stroke run his thumb against Grantaire’s cock without anything else in the way.

It’s horrible. It’s so fucking horrible, and he’s shaking, and he lets go of Enjolras’ hand feeling about ready to hyperventilate, and what did he do? _What did he do?_ Enjolras left him, Enjolras is _leaving him_ and Grantaire doesn’t know _why_ but he’s here being so soft and gentle and Grantaire doesn’t know what to do.

But Enjolras – sweet, brilliant, beautiful, fucked up Enjolras – stops that. One moment Grantaire is about to break down and fucking panic, and then next Enjolras has pushed him down onto the mattress, his back squishing an uncomfortable clump of already untidy sheets beneath him. Grantaire doesn’t have time to react beyond a sharp exhale before Enjolras is hovering above him, holding himself up with one elbow while the other hand moves smoothly to cup the side of Grantaire’s face, fingers just brushing the edges of his hair.

The way Enjolras looks at him is a hypnotic blend of warm softness and an intensity that could cut diamond.

“If you really don’t want this, just say stop,” Enjolras says, and waits for long enough that Grantaire has no choice but to admit the truth by not saying a damn thing. It’s a silent confession, even if it says far more than Grantaire would like to share, but Enjolras looks more than appeased. He also looks exasperated. “Then for fuck’s sake, Grantaire, let me love you. Stop trying to, what, _hide_ this? Like you’re so fucking ashamed you want affection, like you think you aren’t _allowed_ or – wait.”

Grantaire’s immediate reaction is to deny deny _deny_ , to shove Enjolras away and walk out and tell him to fuck off with his stupid uncanny ability to figure Grantaire out before Grantaire does. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if he thinks Enjolras doesn’t want Grantaire to love him anymore, or that this is all back to being an unrequited nightmare that relentlessly gnaws at Grantaire’s skin at the _thought_ of Enjolras.

But no. No, this is _all_ Enjolras’ fault. Every shudder and drop of sweat and held-in scream of Grantaire’s is his fault, both the good and the bad.

This was supposed to be ill-advised regrettable feverish drunk sex that they could not talk about in the morning. Or ever. It was going to be the start of a painful habit where Enjolras leaves him for something (or someone) better and Grantaire still goes crawling back to him begging for anything Enjolras is willing to give.

Instead, Enjolras is here looking at Grantaire like he’s the most important thing in the world.

“No. You don’t get to do this right now. You don’t get to do this, whatever this is. Don’t pick my brain. Don’t _analyze_ me. Either fuck me or get out,” Grantaire says. His hands are clenched in the sheets. It’s very obviously an ultimatum, and Grantaire _means it_.

This isn’t okay. Enjolras doesn’t get to pull him apart like this, doesn’t get to _dissect_ him. When Enjolras just sits there, hesitating, Grantaire adds, “You gave up your right to order me around.”

“I did, didn’t I,” Enjolras says, but doesn’t move. Nothing changes. Enjolras is still looking down at him like he wants to wrap him in silk and hold him forever. Finally, he moves, rolling down to lay next to Grantaire, and starts talking very, very quickly. “And see, that’s what makes this tough. Because I know what I’d normally do, and I know what I _want_ to do, but how hurt and angry are you going to be in the morning? You keep forgetting there’s a morning to deal with, so I have to do it for both of us.”

“You aren’t taking this seriously,” Grantaire says.

“Yes I am, because what exactly do you think would happen if I left right now? I’ll tell you what’d happen. You’d hurt yourself and hate yourself and feel all cold and dark and empty, and blame yourself instead of seeing this is _all_ my fault, and you’d fucking spiral on down and I can’t catch you,” Enjolras says, resigned, and frowns. “I’m probably not supposed to say this.”

Grantaire doesn’t know what to say either.

Enjolras sighs. “And I’m not going to fuck you, and you don’t want me to do anything else because you’re being extra _you_ right now and I am _not_ pushing that line, so that leaves leaving. But then you hurt. See, there’s just no way to win.”

“Compromise, maybe,” Grantaire says. Enjolras is grimacing before the entire word is out of Grantaire’s mouth.

Sex is not supposed to be complicated. It starts, tone is set, Enjolras lays out the plan, and then it’s gloriously mindless pleasure that Grantaire doesn’t have to worry about. That’s how it’s supposed to work, not laying next to each other debating whether or not Enjolras is even staying in bed. It was supposed to be a yes or a no and life moves on.

Instead, Grantaire is staring up at the ceiling as Enjolras just keeps on going, saying, “But what exactly would a compromise be? How do you compromise with this? Even if I ignore the line you set, which I will _not_ do because I respect you as your own person and any limits voiced at any time are-”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Grantaire snaps, and rolls on top of Enjolras, dropping a hand on top of Enjolras’ mouth to muffle the _still_ continuing babble. “Here’s the compromise. It’s about the kind of shit you do when you don’t want consequences in the morning, right? _That’s_ why you won’t fuck me?”

Enjolras nods warily. He has always put way, _way_ more meaning into fucking Grantaire than Grantaire does. Well, mostly. Okay, it kind of means more to Grantaire too, but there’s meaning more and there’s Enjolras’ ridiculous impression that it’s a revered sacred sex rite or something.

“We can manage meaningless sex,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras looks about as convinced as if he said they could manage not arguing for a year. Grantaire makes a frustrated noise, and moves his hand to press his index finger against Enjolras’ more than welcoming lips. Enjolras is immediately less silently sarcastic because he’s busy licking and sucking Grantaire’s finger instead. It’s a tactic that almost always works. “We _can_ , I just – fuck, I have to direct don’t I.”

All Enjolras gives him is an amused arch of his eyebrows. He opens his mouth even wider so he can catch Grantaire’s middle finger and add that in with his hand-worshiping. Because Enjolras _loves_ Grantaire’s hands.

Grantaire groans. “This was supposed to be mindless drunk fucking on the couch,” he says, and drops his head against the mattress next to Enjolras’ neck. “Why is this complicated, I didn’t want - _oh_.”

Enjolras has his hand wrapped around Grantaire’s cock, pressing his own against Grantaire’s in the process. Grantaire has to work to breathe for a moment as Enjolras rocks up against him one more time, dragging his teeth down Grantaire’s fingers in the process, and Grantaire is caught in his grip. With one more jolt of Enjolras’ cock against his own, Enjolras’ fingers move until he has both of them completely trapped together in his hand.

“Oh, I hope this means what I think it means,” Grantaire breathes out.

Enjolras actually willingly pulls off of Grantaire’s fingers so he can say, “Does this work for you?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Grantaire says, and apparently that’s all Enjolras needs.

Enjolras runs his hand roughly against their cocks, and it’s a loose grip that Grantaire doesn’t even try to fight the urge to thrust into. Enjolras is right there with him, breath sharpening beneath Grantaire as he keeps stroking, and pushing their cocks together, and it’s simple, and excusable, and Enjolras makes a humming noise and bites at Grantaire’s already much abused neck.

“I probably shouldn't talk, I know what happens when I talk, but can I talk?” Enjolras asks. He’s not even trying to find a rhythm. Enjolras thrusts when he wants, strokes when he wants, and Grantaire feels completely helpless as he lays there on top of Enjolras, with no thoughts or inclinations beyond pushing inside of Enjolras’ fist and pleading silently that Enjolras’ cock will be there, gorgeous and perfect and waiting to meet him.

“Oh god, I hate you so much sometimes,” Grantaire tells him.

“Is that a yes?” Enjolras asks, and his grip is even _looser_ , infuriating monster of a tease, and it’s not like Grantaire’s answer matters anyway because Enjolras gets so fucking talkative that he could somehow manage to give a ten hour speech in the vacuum of space.

And Grantaire fucking _loves it_.

So, he says, “You’re not you if you don’t.”

“ _Good_ ,” Enjolras says, and apparently that meant far more than just talking because Enjolras’ other hand has a grip on Grantaire’s hair that he uses to pull their mouth together, dragging his lips against Grantaire’s, tongue brushing against his already abused lips. Grantaire opens his mouth and meets Enjolras with a gasp, teeth nipping at his lower lip, and he rocks harder and faster against Enjolras.

The kiss gets messy _fast_ , any and all coordination quickly lost when Enjolras’ hand tightens and it’s a slow hot drag against each other’s cocks. It’s electricity up through his veins, and he has to pull away from Enjolras’ lips, head thrown back with a desperate gasp to just try and fucking _breathe_. And he needs to get himself under control, tries to think _this is meaningless_ , but Enjolras immediately sucks kisses against Grantaire’s burning neck and says, “You are so fucking beautiful, and so _desperate_ , wrecked just from _this_ , fuck, how badly do you need this?”

“I need it so, so bad,” Grantaire says by reflex, and takes another moment to try and remind himself to breathe, just in and out, it shouldn’t be so fucking hard when it’s nothing but _this_. This is nothing, this is meaningless and forgettable and he needs to remember that.

But Enjolras is dragging his fingernails through Grantaire’s hair, and he’s saying, “ _Fuck_ , Grantaire, I want you, I _always_ want you, I want you every fucking second of the day,” and Grantaire ends up turning to shove his face into the sheets and let out the embarrassing moan-whine fighting to get out of his throat. The only thing that gets him is Enjolras dragging his head back up and saying, “No. I want to hear you. God, I want _everything_.”

“Oh fuck,” Grantaire says, because this is so far from insignificant, and Enjolras pulls him in for another kiss, his grip on Grantaire’s cock now with an added infuriating twist and Enjolras is still dragging them together, faster and tighter.

Grantaire separates with a groan to spread his legs apart just enough that he can rock against Enjolras’ cock hard enough that Enjolras moans. His eyelashes flutter for a moment, and there’s the lightest sheen of sweat on his forehead, Enjolras’ absurd hair curling out like an untidy halo, and Grantaire desperately tries to commit the vision to memory. He keeps himself up with two hands planted on the bed barely above Enjolras’ shoulders and stares down at him. “How are you real,” he breathes out.

It’s either the right thing or the wrong thing to say, because either way, Enjolras shifts. He is nowhere near gentle when he grinds their cocks together, hand now fully devoted to Grantaire’s continuing fight to avoid hyperventilating. Grantaire _shudders_ , but it’s still not enough for Enjolras, since he gets a fistful of Grantaire’s hair and pulls him down again. Enjolras kisses him like he wants Grantaire to feel it for days, and fuck, Grantaire wants that too.

Enjolras pulls on Grantaire’s hair just hard enough that he gets his message across, and Grantaire breaks the kiss as instructed.

“This needs to be quick because I don’t know how long I can try to make this casual or meaningless or however you’re saying it,” Enjolras says, wrapping his arm around Grantaire’s waist so that they’re sliding against each other from abdomen down, and it’s so tight, and Enjolras’ wrist _must_ be in pain but Enjolras doesn’t do anything but stroke Grantaire’s cock. His voice is shaking, just a bit. “I don’t do meaningless sex, Grantaire, I _never_ have, so-”

“Silence would help with meaninglessness,” Grantaire manages to say, and Enjolras doesn’t even get his displeased whine out before Grantaire presses their foreheads together, looking Enjolras in the eye and fuck, it is such a bad idea, there’s a maelstrom inside his eyes so Grantaire squeezes his own shut. “But you’re _you_ , so repeat after me. You are hot and I want to fuck you.”

Enjolras says, “You’re breathtaking-”

“You are _hot_ , and I want to fuck you,” Grantaire repeats, and it’s _so_ good, it’s obscene, he’s doing nothing but grinding against Enjolras’ cock and hands and he feels like it’s the most dangerous thing he’s done all year. The thought repeats over and over in his mind, this is absolutely the most dangerous thing he could be doing, better than bullets, and it forces a moan out of him. “Oh _fuck_ , I really, really want to fuck you, Enjolras, you’re so fucking hot, please say it.”

“You are hot,” Enjolras says, in the most rigid and awkward actor’s voice Grantaire has ever heard. 

“And?” Grantaire prompts, even as it gets harder and harder to think beyond the hot gorgeous pressure of Enjolras’ body and hand and cock and his mouth still teasing teeth against Grantaire’s jaw. Enjolras does nothing but breathe hard and sharp into Grantaire’s ear at Grantaire’s prompting, so he says, “ _And?_ ”

“But I don’t want to fuck you, I don’t want to _just_ fuck you, I can’t say that, even for you,” Enjolras says. “You’re so much more than those useless empty words.”

Grantaire knows it’s coming. He can feel it in the tension of Enjolras’ hand against his cock, fingers suddenly rigid and twitching and his thrusts are more and more erratic. Enjolras is fighting it, but he’s about to boil over.

If Grantaire wants to stop this, all he has to do is say the word, or just frown at Enjolras the right way, all he has to do is _anything_ that resembles a no, the smallest fucking thing would work, but _fuck_ , he wants the bad decision. This was already a bad choice, everything about Enjolras is, so why not add one more deliciously fucked up decision to the list?

“Tell me,” Grantaire lets himself say.

“I want to own you,” Enjolras says _immediately_ , and releases a long, agonized groan. “And I. Fuck it, Grantaire, just fuck _everything_ , I don’t just _want_ to own you, I already fucking _do_ and if there’s something wrong with us then the world can just burn itself down and you can draw on me with the ashes and this was the worst fucking plan, _fuck_ the plan, Grantaire, I need you and I want you, I want you so bad my mouth waters and I forget to breathe and you really are so fucking hot and I do want to fuck you, I _do_ , god how I do, but if I fuck you it’s because we both already know you’re _mine_ -”

“Oh my fucking god,” Grantaire manages to gasp out. Suddenly there is nothing else. Enjolras’ fingernails are ripping into Grantaire’s back, marking him with long red stripes between his shoulders and down his spine. “Oh, please. _Please_.”

“You said anything,” Enjolras says. “Give me it.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Grantaire says, and means it, he would give Enjolras _anything_. “Anything, _everything_ , oh god.”

“I could make you scream,” Enjolras says, biting the words into Grantaire’s neck, and Grantaire can’t breathe. “I could make you scream so loud you can’t speak tomorrow, just from _this_ , you’re that fucking desperate and I _love it_. But I don’t want a scream, Grantaire. Oh, no.”

 _Oh no_ , Grantaire agrees, and probably couldn’t talk if his life depended on it. His pulse is so fast, his skin is so hot, and the world begins and ends with Enjolras. Enjolras wants him and Enjolras has him and fucking _nothing_ else matters and Grantaire shudders and says, “ _Anything_.”

Enjolras makes a noise like he’s being strangled, and the world tilts, and spins, and Grantaire has no hope of figuring out what Enjolras is doing, just eagerly follows, and next thing Grantaire can keep track of, his back is hitting the headboard of their bed. Enjolras grabs Grantaire’s hips and drags him into his waiting lap, and they’re back to desperate grinding. Grantaire is so, so close, he’s _so_ close, and all he can do is try and breathe against Enjolras’ agonizingly perfect skin.

“I want my name coming out of your lips like it’s the only sound you can remember. I want _you_ ,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire is going to have twice the bruises come morning and they will be from Enjolras and Grantaire will remember every single one of them. Enjolras’ hand drops down between them again, desperately stroking Grantaire’s cock as Grantaire fights to breathe and to keep his eyes open to keep looking at Enjolras because he feels like this mythical avenging deity currently thrusting against him can’t be real, oh fuck, he _can’t be_.

But the divine apparition that is Enjolras pushes him roughly back against the headboard and the wall behind it, using the opportunity to bite and suck his way down Grantaire’s delicately sweat-shined chest with a hand on Grantaire’s cock and say barely a moment later, “Come for me.”

Enjolras is looking up at him like Grantaire is a priceless artifact he’s planning to smash with a sledgehammer, a delicate filthy destructive fervor with his fucked up hair sticking to his gorgeous flawless skin in curls and slashes of sunlight made something close to human, and it’s Enjolras, it’s _Enjolras_ , and Grantaire obeys, helpless to do anything else but whisper a choked out version of Enjolras’ name that’s almost a sob as he comes, and it slams into him, bright and glorious and _Enjolras_.

For a moment, a small blissful collection of heartbeats, there’s nothing. Grantaire is collapsed against Enjolras and gasping for control of himself. He can feel Enjolras’ breath on his skin, against his cheeks and forehead. When words and sounds come back to him, Grantaire still can barely make them out. Enjolras is running a hand through Grantaire’s hair, fingers digging through in gentle patterns as Enjolras says, “I’ve got you, Grantaire, it’s okay, take your time, I’ve got you. You’re so good, you’re so perfect, I’ll keep you forever.”

“What the fuck,” Grantaire manages to say, and knows he should probably back off or help out with Enjolras’ desperately hard cock, but instead he stays tucked against Enjolras, held tightly. Grantaire’s body is still shaking. “What the fuck. That was nothing but glorified frottage with occasional hand job, what the fuck just happened.”

“Sex is mostly in your brain and emotions,” Enjolras says, and it’s very strange to hear not-quite-preaching packaged in Enjolras’ sex-rough voice. The hand not occupied with curling through Grantaire’s hair is running up and down his back, warm and lovely. “Yours are very powerful sometimes, and now is one of those times, and you are beautiful and perfect. Okay?”

Grantaire just nods, already feeling ready to pass out and sleep for twenty hours. He doesn’t even have the energy to object out of principle.

Enjolras sighs, and Grantaire is dropped carefully onto the mattress. 

And then Enjolras gets off of their bed and Grantaire does his best to lunge after him. All he gets is nearly bashing his head on the floor as his legs and feet tangle in the sheets. Grantaire catches himself with a hand planted on the already dented hardwood, and reaches towards Enjolras with the other. “No, don’t-”

Enjolras hastily gets Grantaire back onto the mattress and kisses him quickly, a firm press of lips against Grantaire’s mouth. “Shh, it’s okay,” he says, and kisses Grantaire’s cheek. “It’s okay, Grantaire.”

“Don’t leave me,” Grantaire says.

“I really need to,” Enjolras says, and pulls the blankets tight around Grantaire, their pillows quickly set under Grantaire’s head. And it _is_ pretty fantastic, but it isn’t Enjolras. He kisses Grantaire again, delicate and lingering. “I love you. I’ll be back, I promise.”

He doesn’t even wait for Grantaire to try and argue, just walks out of the bedroom.

Grantaire falls asleep barely moments later, and has no idea if Enjolras lived up to his promise.

\---

Normally, when Grantaire wakes up a naked sweaty mess, it means good things are in store. Usually that good thing is more sweaty mess in the shower. This morning, he doesn’t get that. It is very, very obvious he doesn’t get that, because he is alone. There’s a bottle of water and headache medication waiting on the nightstand, and a note next to it in Enjolras’ severe handwriting.

_Grantaire-_

_Please take your time about waking up. I’m still in the apartment and would like to_ [there’s a garble of ink and at least three crossed out words] _speak with you. We don’t have to if you don’t want to but I would like to. I also got you croissants and coffee, both of which I can warm up if you sleep for a long time, which is perfectly understandable and_ [then there’s just a mass of pitch black scribbles over words that covers the next two lines, but eventually Enjolras settled on a messy slash of] _feel better._

“How do people take you seriously,” Grantaire mutters, and starts digging himself out of his Enjolras-made cocoon. He has the tiniest amount of hangover, and normally wouldn’t even bother with anything beyond hydration, but if Enjolras provides, he’ll take.

He has no delusions of the level of drunk-but-not-too-drunk he’d managed last night. Grantaire would probably judge it at ‘could probably safely ride a bicycle but it’d be clumsy and hilarious to watch’ level of sobriety. It was tipsy, and the second he spotted Enjolras, he’d started fighting his way towards something closer to normal.

Meanwhile, Enjolras was probably drunk enough that he thinks Grantaire was equally if not _more_ drunk, and the guilt of mercilessly taking advantage of poor impaired and emotionally vulnerable Grantaire is probably tearing him apart. And fuck, he can’t do that to Enjolras. He tries so hard and means well and overly possessive self-flagellating asshole or not, Grantaire can’t go for the easy lie. Not with this. Enjolras would never forgive himself.

So, Grantaire drags his robe on and carries the water bottle and pills out into the living room because he is a grown adult who can face the consequences of his own actions, like adults should.

“Grantaire! I – shit. Sorry. Good morning. How are you feeling?” Enjolras says the minute Grantaire is in sight from his armchair, starting with a surprised shout of Grantaire’s name and lowering the volume until he’s barely audible. It does not help Grantaire’s credibility when he winces.

It’s a small hangover, but it’s _still_ a hangover.

Grantaire takes a deep breath, and just decides to fucking go for it. He puts the pills on the (repositioned) coffee table and says, “I feel fine, because I wasn’t nearly as drunk as you thought last night. You were so worried about me being _safe_ that I wasn’t fully drunk, I was probably half drunk because I promised and it somehow seemed spiteful to obey or something, I don’t know, the point is that I was half sober. So I need you to know that I was fully aware of what I was doing and you were _way_ more drunk, and I knew it. If anyone was taking advantage of someone, it was me.”

Enjolras looks completely stunned, like the idea of Grantaire taking advantage of him is the most preposterous scientific fact in the world. “But you were – that was _not_ you fully in control of yourself,” he says. “You would never.”

Enjolras hesitates. It’s his polite hesitation, where he’s trying to find a more delicate way of saying something. 

“I would never what?” Grantaire asks when the silence starts stretching towards awkward.

Eventually, Enjolras settles on, “You would never ignore the state of our relationship for any reason, let alone for sex. And then, to make it even more obvious, you set very definite limits for us, and after setting very definite limits like that you’d _never_ just – after something like that you don’t give in and let me take over everything like that while impaired and you’d never just fucking _completely_ -” He chokes to a stop, and then awkwardly picks his way through saying, “And act like that.”

“You can say it,” Grantaire says, amused, and figures he might as well start drinking the water.

“I don’t like the other implications in the term,” Enjolras says.

“Even if I solemnly swear you aren’t a horrible abusive sexual tyrant?” Grantaire asks, and rolls his eyes at how Enjolras scowls at him. “For fuck’s sake, Enjolras, I’ve seen you reading-”

“We’re not here to talk about our sex life,” Enjolras says sharply.

Grantaire stares at him, incredulous. “That is _exactly_ what we’re here to talk about.”

“Then we’re not here to discuss any dynamics in our relationship that would need, god, at least three hours to get through,” Enjolras says.

“Except we’ve already done all of that and you just squirm at the thought of calling it what it is,” Grantaire says. He frowns, trying to figure out what is going on in Enjolras’ fucked up brain. “Seriously, that’s probably at _least_ a third of our relationship, and there’s no way you are in denial enough to think we both aren’t really, _really_ good with it. If you do it drunk, you do it naturally.”

“That’s not the _point_ , Grantaire!” Enjolras shouts. He’s so frustrated he’s yelling even with the hangover. “We’re not here to talk about that!”

“You are _way_ too upset about this,” Grantaire says, and tries to decide if it’s hilarious or seriously disturbing.

“We are dropping this topic,” Enjolras says, voice smooth and teeth gritted and doing a very good job of getting himself under control, or at least pretending. “If you really want to discuss it, we can at a later time. The point of this specific conversation is to figure out how last night-”

A very loud knock on the door interrupts him, and Grantaire shouldn’t feel smugly satisfied when Enjolras flinches at the noise, wincing and pressing a hand to his temple. Enjolras does a once-over on Grantaire – hair obviously morning after sex, bruises from a fight and Enjolras’ persistent mouth, wearing nothing but a thin grey robe – and must decide it’s good enough because he stands up and heads for the door. When he passes Grantaire, he takes a moment to point at the bottle and say, “I don’t care how sober you were, drink more water.”

“Yes, master,” Grantaire says, and for just a moment, he really does think Enjolras is going to explode.

But, he doesn’t. Enjolras makes a loud aggravated noise more suited to fifteen year olds getting grounded and turns back towards the door, where their guest is knocking a second time.

When Enjolras harshly yanks the door open, Combeferre and Courfeyrac are standing there. Combeferre looks awkward but determined, and Courfeyrac looks excited and determined, and Grantaire sits on the arm of the couch to watch.

It’s Enjolras who speaks first. He lets out a long sigh, and says, “I fucked up.”

“You’re expecting too much of yourself,” Courfeyrac says, and slaps a hand onto Enjolras’ shoulder, smiling. “It’s fine, really. Grantaire must be so confused it hurts, but it’ll be okay, you just have to take it slow. Think of it as itty bitty little baby steps forward.”

“That would make last night the equivalent of catapulting backwards,” Enjolras says.

“And we can still work with that,” Courfeyrac says, and steps past Enjolras to walk towards Grantaire, grinning the entire time. It isn’t lost on Grantaire that Enjolras and Combeferre are having a whisper-quiet conversation at the door. “Grantaire, my dear friend! How are you doing? Are you so confused it hurts?”

“I am definitely confused,” Grantaire says, and shrugs. “But he keeps talking about a power point presentation and getting more facts, so I’m just kind of waiting Enjolras’ Enjolras-ness out.”

“You understanding angel,” Courfeyrac says.

It makes Grantaire laugh. “More resigned than understanding,” he says. _Resigned_ really is the best word for all of this shit. “You know what’s wrong with him, right? You know why he snapped?”

“Kind of,” Courfeyrac says, sweeping a hand through the air like he can brush the concern away. “I’m helping him figure it out. And, since I really doubt he explained this in any kind of sane or reasonable way, the thing is that Enjolras has to do that independently.”

Grantaire frowns. “You just said you’re helping him,” he says.

“Yeah, but I’m not _you_. Your relationship with him is a world away from mine,” Courfeyrac says, and Grantaire concedes the point with a nod. “Honestly, the best way you could help right now is put some space between you two. I know you don’t want to, and I know Enjolras definitely doesn’t want to, but it’s the safest and most effective way to help him.”

And that…actually makes sense. Grantaire still absolutely hates the idea of being without Enjolras, but Courfeyrac makes the whole getting dumped thing sound like the most reasonable thing in the world. Last night helped significantly, too. Grantaire has absolutely no doubt that their relationship is still there.

It helps that Courfeyrac also makes it sound _temporary_.

“You should mediate all of our conversations,” Grantaire says. 

“I really am pretty good, aren’t I,” Courfeyrac says, and smiles. “Plus, it helps to be a step or two removed from this. I know Enjolras doesn’t want you to be worried about him.”

“So how long are we talking here?” Grantaire asks. “An hour? A day? A week?”

Courfeyrac shrugs. “We’ll know when we know.”

It’s not a promising statement. Courfeyrac is _good_ with words, second only to Enjolras. If he’s giving such a useless nonsense answer, it could be anywhere from ten minutes to months, maybe even _years_. That little balloon of reassurance starts to deflate.

“Oh, right!” Courfeyrac shouts, snapping his fingers, and Grantaire winces. “Oh, sorry. Hangover. So I guess you had a rough night, with the bruises and all.” And then Courfeyrac leaves an expectant pause, eyebrows rising like he can push words out of Grantaire if he wants them hard enough.

And god, it’s like he’s just staring at a meowing kitten instead of petting it or feeding it or whatever the sweet thing wants. Grantaire groans and stands up to fetch a pack of cigarettes out of the cupboard, and Courfeyrac follows along.

He does _not_ look at Enjolras and Combeferre. The triumvirate still has its secrets and they’re welcome to them, that’s not something Grantaire wants to even think of messing with.

The order of the items in their cupboard is completely illogical but somehow makes perfect sense to Enjolras and Grantaire. Top shelf is all the useless used-once fancy kitchen shit, and the next shelf down is pretty much the definition of morning, with cigarettes tucked on the left and bowls in the middle and cereal on the right-

“Oh, for _fuck’s_ sake,” Grantaire says, and groans, shutting the cabinet after quickly removing one more pack of cigarettes from commercial-sized box of boxes that Enjolras bought at some point. “Fuck. I’m supposed to pick the kid up from Cosette’s house this morning.”

“You have plenty of time,” Courfeyrac says easily.

And Courfeyrac is one clever son of a bitch, but Grantaire spends much of his time dragging as much realist behavior as he can out of Enjolras. Grantaire adores Courfeyrac, he really does, but sometimes the contrast between his brilliant loving optimistic nature and the same ruthless pragmatism Enjolras has is a little bit creepy. Courfeyrac believes in an impossibly bright and beautiful future, but he has no illusions of what the path getting there is going to look like.

In other words, Courfeyrac is a cross between Enjolras and a four month old puppy, which means Grantaire can absolutely see that there’s nothing casual about what Courfeyrac is asking. He’s going to keep Grantaire here as long as it takes.

And then Grantaire processes what he’s saying about _last night_ and bruises figures it out and gapes in horror and says, “ _No_ , no no no, what the _fuck_ , Courfeyrac? I got in a fight yesterday, I got _arrested_ , please tell me you don’t really think Enjolras would fucking _hit me_. He would _never_ -”

“It's okay, I don’t, of course I don’t actually think he would, I just – he’s _really_ upset about whatever happened last night,” Courfeyrac says quickly.

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “That’s because he’s an idiot. He’ll probably angst at you about it, but it was just kind of drunk sex. Some things were said and some things took place that might complicate things, and I am _not_ telling you about that part, but that’s all. Enjolras is just being stupid, like he usually is,” Grantaire says.

“Well, that’s more information than I had before,” Courfeyrac says, and shrugs. “I just wanted to check. I mean, I'm not fully informed and I didn’t know if something else happened or if you guys do some sort of, like, consensual-”

“For fuck’s sake, Courfeyrac, stop talking before Enjolras hears and starts thinking that maybe he _is_ abusive and just doesn’t know it or some stupid shit like that,” Grantaire says, and glares. “No, we do _not_ do that. And if anyone _wanted_ to get slapped around in this relationship, it’d be Enjolras, not me.”

Grantaire doesn’t like being hurt, he likes being _controlled_. He likes being wanted and controlled and _owned_ , simple as that. This occasionally means bruises, true, but there is _never_ pain for the sake of pain, and Grantaire wants to keep it that way.

Meanwhile, Enjolras is _still_ keeping quiet about all sorts of kinks, and Grantaire is about thirty percent sure there’s some kind of danger-seeking masochism way down there somewhere. Enjolras hasn’t ever brought it up beyond his patient no-pressure suggestion of knives and Grantaire has no fucking clue how he would even _try_ to start that conversation, let alone carry it somewhere productive. Or if he even wants to.

“That is _also_ more information than I had before,” Courfeyrac says, and looks more intrigued than weirded out, because to Courfeyrac, this is just exciting new information about one of his best buddy’s bedroom lifestyle and he wouldn’t know how to judge someone if you gave him time trials and a score card.

It’s also probably information that Enjolras will not be pleased to hear Grantaire shared with someone else. Honestly, it’s information _Grantaire_ isn’t pleased he share with someone else. He gapes at Courfeyrac. “Oh my god, why am I telling you these things?”

“Because deep in your heart, you just want to tell _someone_ ,” Courfeyrac says, and pats him on the back. “It’s okay, Enjolras did this yesterday. You need to vent.”

“I need to _shower_ ,” Grantaire says. He also needs to find his lighter.

“Well, hold on just a second,” Courfeyrac says, and walks back over to Combeferre and Enjolras right when Grantaire finally spots the promised coffee and croissants sitting patiently on the counter. The coffee is barely lukewarm, but the croissant is pretty fucking fantastic and Grantaire is more than happy to eat while the three pillars of liberty do whatever they’re doing.

Whatever they’re doing either doesn’t take terribly long, or gets stopped abruptly, because suddenly Enjolras shouts, “Of _course_ I’m going with him!” Then he starts marching his way towards Grantaire, with Combeferre and Courfeyrac trying to talk him out of it. “If it’s Fabron, I’m going too.”

“Or you could just do it yourself and take care of him on your own,” Grantaire offers when Enjolras is in front of him, and takes another bite of his croissant. “We can do every other day custody. Actually, you should have _full_ custody, since you’re the one who wants to keep him.”

“We can’t do that,” Enjolras says, like it’s an absolutely horrifying suggestion.

Grantaire just shrugs and keeps on eating.

“I think we should go with the original plan,” Combeferre says. “ _Everyone’s_ original plan.”

“I concur,” Courfeyrac says, and looks at Enjolras expectantly.

Enjolras does _not_ look happy about it, but he says, “Fine.”

“Great,” Grantaire says, and finishes off his croissant. “Now that we have that out of the way, I’m going to _finally_ take my shower.”

“Can I come?” Enjolras asks.

By now, Grantaire knows Enjolras well enough that he’s aware this isn’t a request for shower sex. Mostly because he doesn’t ask for _anything_ (except handholding and a kiss outside of a police station). It’s an incredibly poorly worded request to speak privately in the bathroom.

But Combeferre looks completely shocked, and Courfeyrac is groaning like Enjolras just did the same thing wrong the fourth time in a row, and Grantaire can’t resist that, he really can’t, so he says, “You’ll have to be fast.”

“ _Enjolras_ ,” Courfeyrac says.

“For fuck’s sake, just give us a moment of privacy,” Enjolras snaps, and doesn’t really give them an option, just walking right into the bathroom without looking back at Combeferre’s choking noise. Grantaire manages to keep up, but only barely makes it in before Enjolras shuts the door and locks it.

And it really was a joke, but Grantaire is still sort of tempted to invite Enjolras in with him for some fast and frantic shower sex. The expression on Enjolras’ face shuts the idea down quickly – he looks completely _wrecked_ , and not in the good way.

“I’m a mess, and I’m sorry, and I’m going to do better,” Enjolras says quickly. “And I have to leave you because-”

“It’s okay,” Grantaire says.

“No, it’s _not_ ,” Enjolras says, suddenly absolutely furious for some reason. “It’s _not_ okay, Grantaire! I’m not okay, and you won’t be okay, and this is going to get so much worse. I’m not going to let last night happen again. We have to be _done_ , and I’m so sorry.”

“Courfeyrac explained things, Enjolras. Just do what you need to do,” Grantaire says, because he can be the bigger person. Or the slightly rational person. Which is really fucked up.

“You don’t deserve this,” Enjolras says, and lets out a long breath, shaking his head. “You deserve so much better than this, and you deserve someone better than _me_. And maybe. I think you should try to find that someone.”

Grantaire gapes at him.

“It’s the healthiest option,” Enjolras says, shoulders rigid, dangerously close to defensive.

“When have I _ever_ wanted healthy?” Grantaire says, and doesn’t know if he wants to strangle Enjolras or slam him against the wall and kiss him until their lungs are screaming for air. “What is the one thing I _always_ want, Enjolras? The _only_ thing?”

“And that’s exactly the problem,” Enjolras says.

“Okay, let’s do a little experiment here. Nice and simple,” Grantaire says, barely containing his anger at how fucking _stupid_ Enjolras is being. It turns his words acidic. “Here we are, officially completely broken up because it’s _healthy_ , and I find some other hypothetical person. Me and hypothetical get along pretty well, and hypothetical asks me out on a date and I say, hey, why not? And it goes great. We have a wonderful time. Hypothetical makes me laugh, and _smile_ , and-”

“Stop,” Enjolras says. It’s a whisper that echoes through the room, spoken to the floor but still almost deafening with its weight.

For a long moment, it stretches between them, Grantaire’s point made so clearly that he seems to have unintentionally stabbed Enjolras right through the heart.

“We can break up if you want,” Grantaire says. “Long term, even permanently if that’s what you need. But don’t _ever_ tell me to go find and love someone else. _Ever_. Is that understood?”

“It is,” Enjolras says quietly. He turns back towards the door, but pauses, and comes right back. He moves closer than before, standing directly in front of Grantaire, close enough that Grantaire could lean forward and kiss him. “I dont' say it because I fucking _hate_ the idea of calling you submissive because you are the guide and safety switch in our relationship. You say go, you say stop, you let me know what’s okay and what isn’t. I just have to watch carefully and wait. You give me control, yes, but every single bit of power is yours, and I _like_ it that way. I’m too possessive and I’m too controlling and I can let myself freely be that because I trust you to guide me towards doing the right thing. Yes, you submit, but you are _not_ submissive, and I love you, and I fucking hate using those words for this because of all the other connotations that go along with them. Is _that_ understood?”

Enjolras delivers it in a massive hot tirade, so close and impassioned that Grantaire almost has trouble paying attention to the words.

“It’s understood, now leave or this really is going to turn into shower sex,” Grantaire says.

“But. But we broke up,” Enjolras says, eyes wide. “That isn’t what happens when we break up. When you leave, you _leave_.”

“We break up because you’re doing something horrific and I’m appropriately horrified and need some time to forgive you for occasionally being an amoral monster,” Grantaire says, and fuck it. He puts a hand on Enjolras’ chest, right above his heart. “But _this_ time, I don’t want to be separated, and _you_ don’t want to be separated, and right now you’re being that weird blend of hot and sappy and commanding that’s kind of irresistible, so-”

“I originally came in here to tell you we can’t do this again, so I’ll be leaving,” Enjolras says quickly, stepping back just as fast as the words tumbling out of his mouth.

“One more thing, though,” Grantaire says, barely catching Enjolras before he runs out the door. “I wasn’t joking about refusing to be your nice and easy fall-back option. Not with sex, though, I am _very_ easy, break up or not. Sneak in through the window, show up out of nowhere, whatever you feel like doing, that’s okay and I will happily roll with it. But all official husband rights are still gone. You don’t tell me what to do outside of bed, and you have no impact on my choices.”

Enjolras frowns like Grantaire has somehow defied the laws of physics. “Is that – are you offering a _booty call_? Is that what this is?”

Grantaire just shrugs, because otherwise he has to acknowledge that yes, that is pretty much exactly what he just described. Hearing _Enjolras_ say it is really fucking weird, though. He’s heard some astonishingly filthy words come out of Enjolras’ mouth, but for some reason the phrase _booty call_ feels like hearing a nun curse.

“Oh my fucking god, this is going to be impossible,” Enjolras says, and hurries out of the bathroom.

And hey, Grantaire didn’t beg Enjolras to stop all of this and just take him back, so he’s done his duty. He’s giving space, and he’s not pressuring Enjolras in any way, and didn’t even bring up how badly he wants Enjolras to just fucking _talk to him_. This is good. And sensible. Grantaire is doing the right thing.

Right before Grantaire finally gets in the shower, he hears the beautiful sound of Courfeyrac shouting, “ _Booty calls are not the answer, Enjolras!_ ”

Yes, Grantaire has definitely done the right thing.


	5. Maison de Cosette - Famille Vernier - Musain

The weather is miserable and Grantaire is too fucking chipper to care. There’s a wonderful drizzle that keeps him damp and cold but not wet, and the sun is nothing but a slightly brighter point in the dull grey sky a shade darker than cigarette smoke, and for once, _finally_ , Grantaire feels like he knows what’s going on. Mostly. But it’s good enough.

Combeferre was still in the apartment when Grantaire was showered and dressed, waiting patiently with a shiny new phone with his old number, and a much appreciated list of names. Combeferre had put it delicately in his hand saying, “It really is _your_ choice, Grantaire, not ours. I’m sorry we forgot that.”

And now, Grantaire has the list in his coat pocket. It took a bit of work to get it sitting safely without getting squished by the weaponry and other assorted tools that take up most of the space.

He doesn’t _quite_ hop up the stairs to Cosette’s front door, but it’s close. He flicks his cigarette out into the street, and rings Cosette’s cheery little doorbell, and then regrets it immediately. The moment the welcoming chimes start calling out, there’s a horrible, apocalyptically loud scream from teeny tiny lungs and oh fuck, Cosette is not going to be happy with him. She is going to be the opposite of happy to see him.

Grantaire considers running away.

But, the door opens slowly, and patiently, and there stands Cosette, lips pressed together so tightly that they’re white.

“I’m so sorry,” Grantaire blurts out.

“You didn’t know,” Cosette says, and sounds so strained it almost hurts. Still, she pulls him into a hug that Grantaire is incredibly lucky about because she grabs onto his shoulders and neck, and therefore can’t feel that Grantaire has illegal firearms on him. He hugs back, because she really obviously needs it. Cosette lets out an exhausted groan. “I am so glad you’re here, Grantaire. Are you okay?”

“I’m great, actually,” Grantaire says.

Cosette drops the hug so quickly Grantaire barely has time to register it before she pulls his head down to ensure they’re perfectly matched at her eye level. Cosette starts examining his pupils or if his eyes are bloodshot or something like that, anything else equally indicative of not being sober.

“I feel like I should be offended,” Grantaire comments, and lets her examine him without objecting because hey, fair enough. He’s done some very stupid shit before and it’s the least he can give her. “Really, I’m fine, I promise. I didn’t actually get dumped, Enjolras is just an idiot who can’t explain that _leaving me_ meant, you know. Leaving. Not _leaving_.”

“That does sound like him,” Cosette says, and sighs, releasing his head and giving him a quick peck on the cheek before leading him through the front door. “Oh, but I should warn you-”

“You’re letting this man bring weaponry in your house?” Cosette’s father says, and oh god, Grantaire really should’ve run when he had the chance. The man is sitting in the corner, impeccably buttoned up (excluding the very top button) and scowling, because he hates Grantaire and Grantaire kind of hates him right back. There’s a silent truce for Cosette’s sake. Grantaire tries not to be an asshole at him, and Cosette’s father keeps his disdain to a minimum, and Cosette lovingly pretends she doesn’t notice.

“Hypocrite,” Grantaire says, because Cosette’s father _obviously_ has a gun on him.

“Of course I’m armed. I’m here to protect my daughter and granddaughter,” Cosette’s father says. His disdain is not minimal.

“And your son in law,” Cosette adds.

“Yes,” Cosette’s father says. “Of course. Him too, if conditions allow it.”

Grantaire’s about to get offended on Marius’ behalf, but Cosette laughs like it’s a delightful inside joke, and her father’s lips twitch like he’s trying not to smile.

He will never understand their relationship.

“Okay, I’m here to pick up a kid who nearly got my head blown off the last time we were out in the open, so yes, I have weaponry,” Grantaire says, and turns to Cosette. “Speaking of, where is he?”

“I think he’s still upstairs with Papa,” Cosette says, and takes a moment to drop a kiss onto her father’s head and then lead Grantaire away from the now much calmer cries. Even from this far away, Grantaire can still hear the rattling of whatever Marius is shaking at their baby. “I know, I’m amazed too. Marius is _such_ a good daddy, he’s so good with Jeanne, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him happier than being a stay at home dad. It’s just – it’s _beautiful_ , god, I want twelve more babies.”

“Please don’t do that, I think you’d explode,” Grantaire says. He’s used to Cosette getting her goo-goo eyes about Marius but he's suddenly bombarded with images of Cosette pregnant with duodecaplets and it is _horrific_ , she’d have to carry her stomach in a wheelbarrow.

Cosette gives him an amused smile. “You’ve _never_ wanted kids? Not even a little bit?”

“I’m not interested to the point of the occasional nightmare. There’s a reason my sister had a hysterectomy when she was seventeen,” Grantaire says, and shakes his head. “No, I am _definitely_ not interested in being a dad.” He can’t help but perk up, though. “There’s plenty of other people who are, though. That’s my plan for the day, while Enjolras gets himself sorted out.”

They lurch to a stop in the middle of the hallway, Cosette quickly pivoting to frown at him. “What are you planning to do, Grantaire?” she asks slowly, in that _oh no_ tone of voice that means Grantaire’s probably doing something really fucked up.

“There’s nothing bad going on, I swear, it’s actually really good – here, look,” Grantaire says, and pulls the list out. It has four addresses, and names, and very brief synopses of each family on it - how many people are in the family, how long the family has been waiting for a kid, that sort of thing. “Combeferre found some potential families for the kid, and I figured we could look them over together today. Fabron gets skittish but I can calm him down, and Enjolras is _way_ too distracting to make this even remotely helpful for the kid if he comes along, so it’s a good time for it. They’re all on waiting lists, they’re all looking for a kid like Fabron, Combeferre wouldn’t put them on the list unless he thought they could handle how fucked up the kid is, and I’m dead serious, Cosette, this is a great idea. We could get him into an actually good family, a _Combeferre-approved_ family, and the kid can even shop around a little while under supervision.”

Cosette hesitates, clearly teetering between seeing how amazing Grantaire’s plan is and her own doubts about, well, whatever still has her giving him the _oh no_ look. “It’s a good idea, but is now really the time? Someone tried to kill you both, and then the police didn’t file an arrest report on you for some reason, and there is _something_ going on,” Cosette says. “That doesn’t seem like a good time to introduce a traumatized child to strangers.”

“Then what _should_ I do, run and hide in a safe house with him?” Grantaire asks, because the idea is _absurd_ , but Cosette looks strangely awkward. Which means one thing. “Oh god, you really do want me to run and hide in a safe house with him, don’t you.”

“They’re called safe houses because they’re _safe_ ,” Cosette says.

“If they could find us on a completely random rooftop where the only thing that could’ve given it away is _birds_ , they can find us in a safe house,” Grantaire says, and shakes his head. “Besides, I couldn’t do that even if I _did_ think it was a good idea. Enjolras would freak out all over again if he couldn’t find me when he comes back.”

“This isn’t about Enjolras,” Cosette says. “This is about Fabron getting killed or kidnapped or who knows what. This is about the fact someone either in the police or the justice system or maybe – _probably_ – even higher in the government is after you. I know you don’t want to hear this, Grantaire, I _know_ that, but you need to think about this threat and the options you have to deal with it. Try to stop worrying about Enjolras for a second and worry about Fabron and your own situation instead. Okay?”

Cosette is by far the wisest, kindest, cleverest, and most reliable person Grantaire knows, and he is fiercely proud to have the honor of calling her his friend. She wouldn’t be so insistent if she didn’t think it was necessary. She knows him too well to think it would work in anything but extreme circumstances.

But Grantaire can imagine Enjolras coming home to an empty apartment and panicking, because that is _exactly_ what Grantaire would do. He’d walk in expecting Enjolras and then wonder why he wasn’t there, and what he did wrong to make Enjolras leave, and it would just spiral down and down and _down_ , and he thinks of how unhinged Enjolras already is and how fragile he might be at the end of this, and he shakes his head. “I can’t do that,” Grantaire says. “I know your idea is the smart one, it always is, but I _can’t_. I can’t do that to him.”

It takes a moment, but eventually, Cosette gives him a small, sweet smile. “You have so much love in you.”

“I have no idea what that means,” Grantaire says.

“It means your heart rules your head, and there’s nothing bad about that,” Cosette says, and nods back down the hallway. “Take Fabron, for example. There’s the logical thing to do, and there’s what your heart tells you to do – try to find him a good family. I think it’s wonderful.”

“But stupid,” Grantaire says.

Cosette frowns, of course. “I’ll admit it’s frustrating sometimes, and you're a little misguided, but no, it’s not _stupid_. It’s what makes you who you are.”

“You’re not going to try and stop me from taking the kid to meet total strangers?” Grantaire asks.

“I can only hope you won’t get killed and die a horrible death,” Cosette says. “You make your own decisions. My job is trying to get you to make the right ones.”

“You didn’t do very well today,” Grantaire says.

“Well, we all have our off days,” Cosette says, and finally starts moving again. “I really do wish you’d reconsider, though.”

Grantaire fights to not roll his eyes. “Cosette, the first family on this list is about six streets away, it’s not like I’m taking him into a war zone,” he says. “Even if I _was_ , he’d probably be fine. The kid’s already killed at _least_ one person, so-”

“He’s _what?!_ ” Cosette shouts when they’re just about right in front of the closed door, staring at him in absolute horror at the truly terrible struggles that poor baby Fabron has gone through – which actually really are pretty bad, he shouldn’t be an asshole about that.

Cosette is about to say something else, but the door flies open and Grantaire nearly punches the kid when he comes running towards Grantaire, a fast streak of dark hair, and _hugs him_ , what the fuck, what is he supposed to do here? He awkwardly pats the kid on the back and says, “Hi?”

“I was so worried and alone and _scared_ , please don’t leave me here,” the kid says. “I don’t want to be here.”

“Of course I’m not leaving you here,” Grantaire says, because he would never inflict Fabron on Cosette _permanently_. She looks ready to fall over at any second just from taking care of the baby, and she planned for that for _years_. What kind of horrors would she face with _two_ tiny humans to deal with? “Hey, listen, do you want to go meet some families you could adopt?”

“I want to stay with you,” Fabron says.

“I’m afraid you don’t always get what you want in life,” Grantaire says.

“ _Grantaire_ ,” Cosette says.

“What, I should avoid spoilers for real life? He already _knows_ , Cosette,” Grantaire says, and it only takes a hint of prying Fabron’s limbs off of him for the kid to step back.

“If I have to,” the kid says, in a massively exaggerating sulk, and-

“Oh for _fuck’s_ sake, kid, do _not_ start with me right now,” Grantaire snaps, and holds out a hand. “Give it.”

Cosette is looking at him like he’s a particularly tragic circus act. “Grantaire, really, you-”

The kid is smart enough to just hand over the gun he pickpocketed, setting it in Grantaire’s waiting hand without a single word. Which is good. Grantaire wouldn’t believe him even if he _did_ apologize.

“Oh,” Cosette says, and frowns at the kid.

“So are you a professional thief, or is it just a nasty habit you’ve picked up?” Grantaire asks the kid, whose sulking looks nowhere near as exaggerated and childish now. It’s interesting to see him go into his usual setting of extreme caution after looking like he was five seconds from crying if things don’t go his way. When he gets no reply, Grantaire sighs, and crouches so he’s at eye level. “I’m not mad. I’m not even _surprised_ , really, and I can definitely see why you’d want a gun, so there’s no harm done as long as you don’t do it again. I just want to know where you learned how to do that.”

Fabron doesn’t say a damn thing. He just stands there, dead silent as his body shakes a tiny bit.

“That’s fine. We can drop the subject,” Grantaire says, and shrugs, standing. “It’s not really my business anyway. Do you want to meet families today or not?”

Carefully, Fabron says, “I thought finding a family would take at least a month.”

Which means Enjolras talked to him at some point.

Which also means Grantaire needs to talk to Enjolras at some point.

But, Grantaire has to work with what he's got, so he gives the kid a tight smile that's only slightly fake. “It takes a month if we don’t let _you_ choose. Plus, Enjolras is a perfectionist, so you should never believe his time estimates,” Grantaire says.

“Can I choose staying with you guys?” Fabron says.

“Definitely not an option,” Grantaire says.

“ _Why?!_ ” Fabron asks, voice so loud that Grantaire would call it a shout if the kid’s voice hadn’t cracked in the middle and turned it into a very loud hoarse whisper.

He's still loud enough that there’s another wail from the baby downstairs, and Cosette lets out an exhausted stressed noise. 

“I’m sorry, I didn't mean to,” Fabron blurts out, his big blue eyes impossibly large and pitiable as he looks up at Cosette.

“It’s okay, this is nothing Marius and I can’t handle. She’s just grumpy today,” Cosette tells him, nice and soothing and impossibly forgiving, and heads back downstairs.

Grantaire is left facing the kid, and having to explain this, and it’s terrible. But, he has to try, so Grantaire says, “Okay, let me walk you through this. You said your parents are dead, right? Do you remember them at all?”

“I remember my mom a little,” Fabron says.

“Well, now, you get to _pick_ parents. If there’s something you liked, we can try to find that in your new parents. If you hated something, we can make sure your new parents don’t do it,” Grantaire says. When Fabron just keeps frowning, Grantaire gapes at him, incredulous. “Don’t you get it? This is every kid’s dream! You get to shop for parents! You don’t have to just make do with what you’ve been born into. You could say that you want, I don’t know, you could say you want a fucking _mime_ for a mom and we could-”

“But why can’t it be _you?_ ” Fabron asks, _again_.

“Because it’d be _me_. Even worse, it would be me and _Enjolras_ , and I wouldn’t trust him near anything impressionable,” Grantaire says. “It’d be fucking terrible. You’d become a miniature Enjolras. I’d have to get you a baby leash.”

“That’s not a real reason,” the kid says.

“What, do you _want_ a baby leash?” Grantaire asks.

Fabron stomps his foot on the floor and shouts, “That’s not what I said!”

“Well you should be clearer when you talk, then,” Grantaire says. “I was about to order you one, and then I’d hand it over to your new parents.”

“But I don’t want-”

“I don’t _care_ what you want, Fabron, it’s _happening_ ,” Grantaire snaps, and regrets it immediately, because the second the words are out of his mouth, the kid looks like he's about to cry. His chin scrunches up, and his already pitiful eyes get shiny. Grantaire gapes in horror as the kid starts to sniffle. “Oh god. Shit. Wait, I didn’t-”

“Let’s all just sit down and talk about this,” Cosette’s papa says from where he’s standing in the doorframe of the room Fabron came running out of. As ever, he looks like a deceptively muscular beardless Santa, just about ready to magically pull toys out of nowhere and eager to sit down and listen to anything and everything you want to tell him. He’s such a good person that it is _creepy_. It’s like he exists for the sole reason of proving Grantaire’s perception of humanity is wrong.

There must be one _hell_ of a story about how Cosette’s parents got together, and Grantaire is very glad he doesn’t know it.

Still, he turns to look at Cosette’s papa and give him a frustrated, exhausted shrug. “There’s nothing to talk about,” he says. “The kid wants to stay with us, but he can’t, and there’s no way to explain that we’re fucked up because _he_ is so fucked up right now, and this can’t happen. It _can’t_. We would end up teaching him to be like us, and it would destroy him. I want to stick him where he could be happy and safe, and the only person who can really accurately judge his happiness is Fabron, so how is this not obvious? How does this even need discussion?”

“It doesn’t need discussion. It needs time and patience, both of which are valuable traits that you should teach Fabron either way,” Cosette’s papa says, and smiles at Fabron. The kid smiles back, because you can’t _not_ smile back when it’s Cosette’s papa. He is benevolence personified. “Why don’t you try and visit just one family, and see how it goes? You both would be willing to do that, wouldn’t you?”

That’s pretty much exactly what Grantaire was already planning to do, but he takes his time about looking down at Fabron and saying, “I’ll agree to this only if you promise to be _honest_ about this. Don’t lie to the family, don’t lie to me, and don’t lie about what you think or how you feel about this particular family. Is that acceptable?”

“I guess,” Fabron says, still sulking, but he’s not crying, so Grantaire counts it as a victory. It’s a minor one, though, since the kid adds, “But I won’t like it.”

“You don’t need to like it, you just need to do it,” Grantaire tells him. “Okay?”

“Okay,” the kid says.

“Please remember that if it doesn’t work out, or you feel uncomfortable, you can always come back here, Fabron. You are always welcome,” Cosette’s papa says, smile chalk full of fluffy prancing unicorns coming over to snuggle with you and seriously, he is _creepy_. He can’t be real. Cosette’s humbling amount of kindness is hard enough to deal with sometimes.

Cosette’s papa turns his terrifyingly gentle smile towards Grantaire, and adds, “That goes for you too, Grantaire. I hope things are good?”

“They will be, thank you for asking,” Grantaire says, and gets a tiny pinch of the fabric of Fabron’s coat, just enough to tug a little bit. “We’ll be on our way now, and thank you, and. We’re going. Goodbye.”

The kid gets the idea, at least, and follows Grantaire back downstairs.

“I like him,” Fabron says.

“You would,” Grantaire mutters, because really, of course he would. The kid thinks he and Enjolras are great; Cosette’s papa is probably heaven on earth.

And Grantaire would drop in on Cosette and Marius and the baby, but it sounds like they’ve finally managed to calm her down again, and he doesn’t want to send her into a screaming fit _again_. Cosette’s father is nowhere to be seen either, so he pulls his tiny sketch pad and a pencil out when they reach the door and draws a very quick picture of a Grantaire-ish figure and Fabron-ish figure tiptoeing out the door, and a quick couple of lines saying goodbye, and then shows it to the kid. “We are going to be very, very quiet about this. Okay?”

“What else do you have in your coat?” Fabron asks, obviously fascinated.

“Just the essentials, you know, art, nicotine, weaponry, alcohol,” Grantaire says, propping the picture on the little table Cosette has next to the door, and very, _very_ quietly opens the door. It’s pure habit when he steps back and has the kid go through first, but it’s also pretty convenient, since he gets to also close the door as quietly as humanly possible. “Okay. One family. This one’s not too far away. Are you okay with that one, or do you want to pick off of the list?”

“I don’t care,” Fabron says. He’s fighting the sulk, even if there’s still half of a pout on his lips.

It’s good enough for Grantaire, so he starts walking, the kid sticking to his side at a perfectly protectable distance without even being told to do so.

The neighborhood goes from respectable and nice enough to not quite mansions pretty fucking quick. That makes sense, since it was Combeferre-approved. 

It’s surprisingly easy to forget that Combeferre grew up filthy rich too. Not as rich as Enjolras, of course, but few people are. 

The house they stop in front of has a nice enough garden on the front of the property, but it’s obvious that a lot more work was put into the fence and gate that surround it. They’re a strange, fascinating geometric pattern of wrought iron that Grantaire actually _really_ wants to get a better look at. He crouches down to trace the angles with a finger and contemplate the design.

“Are you going to break the gate down?” Fabron asks.

Grantaire turns to smile at him. “You know, I’ve never really been a sculpture person, but this thing’s really-”

“ _Who are you and stop fondling my fence_ ,” an intercom says.

Grantaire politely steps back to frown at the intercom. “How did you know I’m here? Do you just sit there and stare at your fence in case someone starts looking at it for five seconds?”

“I pushed the button,” Fabron says. He does it again for good measure, making the intercom let out an incredibly obnoxious buzzing noise.

“ _Stop that. Who are you? I’m not buying anything,_ ” the intercom says again.

“Listen, I was told you’re looking to adopt a child,” Grantaire says. “And I have a kid here looking for parents, so-”

“ _Oh god, I am so sorry,_ ” the intercom says. There’s another buzzing, and the gate swings open.

Grantaire isn’t sure exactly what he was expecting from this, but having the front door slam open and a barefoot woman with very short brown hair running towards them was not it. “Hi! Welcome!” she shouts at them even though she could probably whisper and they’d hear her, coming to a stop just on the other side of the gate. “We weren’t expecting anyone, it’s Sunday morning and we’ve been kind of- oh.” She blinks down at Fabron. “Hello.”

“Hi?” Fabron says, and looks more like he’s saying hello to a hungry deformed tiger than a frazzled woman.

“Let’s all go inside, not touch the kid, and get to know each other,” Grantaire says. When the woman just looks incredibly nervous, Grantaire finally figures it out, and can’t help but laugh. “Oh no, _fuck_ no, this is nowhere near some kind of home inspection shit, you could have five bags of weed and ten thousand dildos-”

“Oh my god,” the woman says, and blushes so hard it must hurt. “You can’t say that, there’s a _child_ here!”

“Yeah, but he’s not exactly naïve and innocent,” Grantaire says.

“What’s a dildo?” the kid asks.

“Okay, maybe he’s a little innocent,” Grantaire says, and shrugs, looking down at Fabron. “It’s a-”

“ _Stop_ ,” the woman says harshly, glaring at Grantaire even while she’s scarlet. “Children are _supposed_ to have a little innocence, don’t you dare take this from him.”

Grantaire’s immediate reaction is to argue, to ask her what good keeping this insignificant sliver of innocence will do when Fabron is already long past any hope of having the life of your average happy little child. But, Grantaire is not the one who has undoubtedly studied up on being a parent. All he knows is that he would be the shittiest parent on the planet if he had to somehow manage it.

So, he says, “Let’s go inside, and don’t worry if it’s a mess. That just proves you actually live here. Now, please, lead the way.”

She looks surprised for some reason, but nods, and starts walking them into the house. “I just got back from a dig, though, so things are _very_ messy. Sophie and I will have it cleaned up in no time, I promise, it’s just a lot of things and I’ve really only been back for twelve hours,” she says.

When they step through the door, it is very obvious that she was telling the truth. There’s a pickaxe leaning against the wall that still has a clump of clay on the side. There’s a tarp stretched across what’s probably their living room, since it’s hooked into the still visible edges of two couches. There are massive dusty black cases leaning against walls, and the floor is filthy, and there’s a barely-visible mosaic on the floor, and Grantaire just can’t help but wonder how Combeferre is so good at _everything_.

“Combeferre found you an archaeologist,” Grantaire says, bemused, and holds a hand out to the woman. “I’m Grantaire, and this is Fabron. You are?”

“Zoe Vernier,” she says. When she’s finished shaking Grantaire’s hand she reaches to do the same with Fabron, but Grantaire whaps her hand away. It isn’t polite, but it’s fast, and it makes Zoe look at Fabron’s extremely closed off expression finally. She’s clearly very smart, since she takes a step back and just smiles at the kid instead. “It’s nice to meet you, Fabron.”

“If there’s anyone else in the house, you should introduce them now,” Grantaire says. Having the kid scream his way into a panic attack because a butler magically appeared behind him wouldn’t be fun, particularly when it’s a potential family.

Zoe nods. “It’s only me and Sophie, I’ll call her down-”

“No shouting, either,” Grantaire says.

Impressively, Zoe just nods and says, “I’ll be back,” and runs deeper into the house.

Grantaire looks down at Fabron expectantly. “Opinion so far?”

“I still want to know what a dildo is,” Fabron says.

“It’s the national bird of Ecuador, known primarily for its vibrant orange plumage,” Grantaire says.

“Their national bird is the condor,” Fabron says.

“Huh. Then I guess we’ll just never know what it is,” Grantaire says. The kid scowls at him, obviously not fooled, but it's not like Grantaire actually expected that to work. It does make Fabron drop the topic, at least, and that's more than enough for Grantaire. “But I really do want an opinion.”

“She’s weird,” Fabron says after a moment. When Grantaire just raises his eyebrows expectantly, he adds, “Not in a bad way, just in a weird way.”

Zoe comes trotting back over with quite possibly one of the most softly beautiful women Grantaire has ever seen. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to greet you, I was busy hiding the skulls-”

“ _Sophie_ ,” Zoe hisses.

“You’re an archaeologist, you’re allowed to have skulls. Besides, they’re decorative,” Sophie says, and claps her hands together in front of her chest, beaming at them. “Now! You must want a tour, right? I’m Sophie, by the way. The place is a mess, but-”

“I don’t want a tour,” Fabron says.

“Would you like something to drink, then?” Sophie says, smile not shifting even the slightest bit, completely unfazed by the kid shutting her down. “Zoe brought me back some raw all-natural fig juice. It’s strange when you first taste it, but I kind of like it, and it’s very refreshing. Want to try some?”

With that kind of a pitch, even Fabron has to try it, and Grantaire escorts him along as Sophie talks all about the different kinds of juices she has available. He feels like a safety blanket, and it’s ridiculous. Fabron hops onto one of the stools in front of the kitchen counter, and Grantaire takes a seat at the table, trying to decide whether or not he’s willing to risk the Vernier family’s bad opinion by smoking.

So, he ends up sitting there silently with twitchy fingers and a glass of fig juice, watching the kid and his potential parents. Zoe is obviously flustered, but Sophie is a pro, and more than anything it’s Fabron getting answers to questions he hasn’t needed to ask, since every time they ask the kid a question he just goes silent and drinks more juice. They’ve been married for ten years, Zoe is a professor who regularly goes and digs up Minoan civilization stuff (which does not explain the skulls), Sophie is some kind of teacher, and they’re in the middle of telling him how they met (which is so fucking cute Grantaire could start cooing) and Grantaire is starting to zone out when Fabron finally jumps out of his seat and says, “I need the bathroom.”

“Want an escort?” Grantaire asks once Sophie has pointed him in the right direction. Fabron glares at him, so Grantaire just puts his hands up in surrender and lets him go alone.

The minute the door shuts, the women turn to stare at him.

“Okay, here’s what I’ve got,” Grantaire says, because this isn't exactly surprising. “He has panic attacks, he’s nervous and twitchy, he’s obsessed with birds, he can pickpocket, his family is dead, he’s killed at least one person and it was probably self-defense, he was found in a rich bad guy’s home, and that’s pretty much all I know. He had bruises when we picked him up, but they were on his arms. I think he was actually mostly safe there, since he’s otherwise unscathed. At least, unscathed other than psychologically, considering the trauma and panic attacks.” He hesitates, but adds, “And my husband wants us to keep him, but I think you can already tell that’s a terrible idea.”

“Just a little bit,” Zoe says.

“He is _very_ smart,” Sophie says, smiling, obviously proud of him for some reason. “And incredibly defensive. I can’t maneuver him into sharing at all, he doesn’t fall for _anything_ that would make him actually talk.”

Grantaire frowns. “Exactly what kind of teacher are you again?”

“Oh, I specialize in teaching traumatized children, helping them reintegrate with their peers and feel comfortable in their age group,” Sophie says. “I like to think of it as teaching children how to be children again.”

Seriously, how is Combeferre this good?

“But Fabron is completely shut off,” she continues. “I’ve seen children afraid to open up, but this is different, somehow. Even when he does communicate, he's not _involved_. It’s almost like he’s been trained to speak, but never say anything.”

Grantaire holds up a hand, and says, “Wait, when you say trained, you’re – are you saying he’s had _anti-interrogation training?_ He’s been taught to do this? This isn’t just, you know, fucked up kid stuff?”

Sophie frowns at him. “That’s a very militaristic way to put it, but yes,” she says.

“Oh shit,” Grantaire says, and _oh shit_ , it makes sense. It makes so much incredibly fucked up sense, because a criminal training a kid to keep his mouth shut is disgustingly brilliant. Worried about having someone shoot your messenger? Make the messenger an adorable little boy with big blue puppy dog eyes he can turn against anyone who gets angry. And why try to kill Fabron? Because you get rid of the last person who knows a dead man’s secrets. A dead _criminal empire’s_ secrets.

Enjolras found him hidden in a room with a _guard_ , who Fabron killed, but they’d been so, so wrong about why the guard was there in the first place. The kid’s smart, and the kid’s dangerous – and of _course_ , that’s why he wants to stay with Enjolras and Grantaire. He killed the other guard, and he’s realized he needs protection again.

Oh fuck, was he _trained_ to have panic attacks?

The shitty shooter on the roof had said he was after Fabron’s _head_. But then why try to kill him? He was a terrible shot, and panicking, but he couldn’t be stupid enough to think he could somehow get some information from his little corpse and oh god, this is so fucked up. This is so, _so_ fucked up. Fabron is _tiny_ , he’s just a little boy, and how long did it take for them to train him? How long has he been doing this? How did he get involved in this in the first place?

Fabron knows something. Fabron knows a lot of somethings. And thanks to Enjolras and Grantaire changing the power structure, the fact he’s a little kid isn’t enough to stop people anymore.

“Are you okay?” Sophie asks carefully.

Grantaire pulls out a cigarette because they can just fucking deal with it and he feels about ready to scream or vomit or panic or _something_ , lights it before he can start caring about how this might change Fabron’s odds of having them as a family. Except Fabron will probably get them killed if he sticks around. Even though he’s (probably) a completely innocent child just doing what he thinks he’s supposed to, being around him is _deadly_.

And Enjolras kept saying they’re _responsible_ for him. Enjolras has admitted he's keeping something from Grantaire. What is he missing here? Does Enjolras know that Fabron’s practically a walking talking bird-watching database of sensitive illegal information?

He lets out a slow breath of smoke, and says, “I’m afraid Fabron is not up for adoption at the moment, because you will probably end up dead otherwise. You seem like lovely people, so I’d like to avoid that. I’ll be outside. Have the kid follow when he stops panicking in the bathroom.”

They protest, but Grantaire doesn’t listen, doesn't even look back at them, just concentrates on breathing and the small steady rituals that revolve around a cigarette. It’s always been soothing, and it needs to work, it _needs to_ , because he needs to shut down the thoughts racing through his head as quickly as possible. He inhales, and it’s heat and smoke and familiar comfort, and he exhales, and watches the air eat away at the smoke as it trails away from him.

Enjolras was right. They _are_ responsible for Fabron.

He sits down on the Vernier family’s porch and takes a moment to calm down. Or at least he tries to.

This situation is _not_ their fault. This situation is possibly safer for Fabron. This situation is potentially fixable, if they do something like put Fabron in witness protection. Except these people already _found them_ , just on a random rooftop in Paris, so it would just be the same situation as Cosette’s proposed safe house. And fuck, Grantaire doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know what to do, he doesn’t know how to help the kid, doesn’t know if there's even the option of a happy ending to a story like Fabron's, and he doesn’t even realize he’s calling Enjolras until the phone is in his hand and dialing and ringing and Enjolras picks up and says, “Grantaire? Are you okay?”

“Oh god, I miss you,” Grantaire breathes out. Hearing Enjolras’ voice feels like a cool bath on a sweltering day, cough medicine on a throat that feels like it’s made of burning gravel. And it’s ridiculous, he saw Enjolras, what, two hours ago? Three? Four at the _most_.

“I miss you too, are you okay? Are you safe? You need to tell me if you’re okay, Grantaire,” Enjolras says very quickly.

“I’m okay, I’m safe, there’s no need to worry,” Grantaire says. He doesn't know why he called. Maybe he was going to ask Enjolras what to do, or demand answers, or _something_ , but instead he closes his eyes and tries to fucking _breathe_. “I’m just having a rough day, and that’s nothing new. I just needed to, I don’t know, _hear you_ or something, I know this is stupid-”

“It’s _not_ ,” Enjolras says, because he does that. There’s a pause, but then he says, “I was going to call you soon anyway. I finished my PowerPoint and was going to invite you to see it. My original plan was to ask you to come this evening, but this afternoon might work too if I move some things around. I know you wanted to see it as soon as possible, too, so it sounds like that’d be a better idea.”

“It is definitely a better idea,” Grantaire says, and sags against the house’s wall feeling like a lifeless rag doll tossed against the bricks. “Life is hard.”

“I know it is,” Enjolras says.

“Well, I don’t like it,” Grantaire says. “I don’t like how fucked up the world is, I don’t like how it seems like shit just gets worse and _worse_ every single second, even with people like you trying to fix it. There’s no end to it until you die, and you do your best, but your best just isn’t fucking good enough. Nobody’s best is.”

There’s another pause, and Grantaire tries to fill it with smoke. Then, Enjolras says, “Fuck it. Where are you right now?”

“You really suck at leaving me,” Grantaire says.

“Yes I do, now where are you?” Enjolras says.

“I’ll be fine, Enjolras,” Grantaire says. “Be strong.”

“There is _no_ harm in a hug,” Enjolras says firmly. “That’s all I intend, and that is harmless. Some people even introduce themselves to complete strangers with hugs. Tell me where you are, and then I-”

“I’m going to hang up now, and you are going to get back to whatever you were doing,” Grantaire says. “Tell me where to be and when to be there and I’ll watch your presentation later, okay? Okay. Goodbye.”

He hangs up before Enjolras can coax out Grantaire’s current location by being Enjolras. If they’re supposed to be separated for now, for Enjolras’ sake, then Grantaire is going to be as separated as he can manage. Or at least as separated as he can _survive_. Enjolras is absolutely right and they are very fucked up, and yes, they should probably try to work on that, but Grantaire has never been an optimist. He’s going for survival here, and if that means calling Enjolras every two hours, that’s what’s going to happen.

It doesn’t take much longer for Fabron to come speed walking out of the house looking like he’s just escaped being chased by an entire hive of bees. “I don’t want to live with them,” Fabron says quickly.

“Darn. Well, I guess we’ll have to go home and eat lunch,” Grantaire says, and leads his tiny intelligence agent away from the nice couple who watch and wave from an upstairs window as he and Fabron walk through Zoe’s Minoan-inspired gate and back into the real world.

\---

It’s exactly 3:30 in the afternoon, and Grantaire is asleep on the couch when his phone rings. It makes Fabron jump out of his seat in front of the TV, twisting to be good and ready for the threat that is Grantaire groaning his way out of the clinging fog of a nap that’s lasted too long. When Grantaire answers, he says, “Please be good news.”

“I can be good news if you want,” Joly says cheerily, and he actually kind of is. It’s impossible to not adore Joly. Talking to him is pretty great most of the time. “Bossuet and I are standing outside your door. I thought this would be a more gentle way to say hello. If you come open the door, I can definitely give you good news!”

So, Grantaire hangs up, and stretches, and opens the front door to see Joly with Bossuet behind him, as promised. Both of them are smiling in a particularly anticipatory kind of way, though, so Grantaire can’t be entirely pleased to see them. “It’s not that I don’t like you, but why are you here?” he asks.

Joly throws his arms out excitedly and says, “We’re the babysitters!”

“Oh thank god,” Grantaire says, and pulls him into an unhealthily tight hug. “You are _angels_ , may your descendants be blessed for five generations-”

“There there, it’s okay,” Joly says, patting him fondly on the back before wriggling his way out of Grantaire’s arms. “Musichetta has a taxi waiting downstairs for us.”

Grantaire frowns, and hesitates. “I’m incredibly grateful, and this really is good news, but is that really the best idea? I mean, he’s pretty much a stray cat.”

“A cat, I am ready for. Which brings us to our incentive,” Bossuet says, and finally moves forward enough that Grantaire can see that there really _is_ a cat in his arms. It’s short-haired and grayish, and the cat’s yellow eyes barely bother to glance at Grantaire before the cat jumps elegantly out of Bossuet’s arms and onto the floor.

The second it hits the hardwood and is easily visible, Fabron blurts out, “ _Kitty_.”

“Her name is Edith Grey,” Joly says.

“I thought it was Trouble,” Bossuet says.

“No, don’t you remember? Trouble’s her _middle_ name,” Joly says.

Grantaire just groans and shakes his head. At least they make each other happy. “Enjolras is going to have a fit about there being a cat in his apartment. First he’ll have a screaming fit and then he’ll sneeze for seven weeks,” he says. “The cat needs to be removed.”

Edith Trouble Grey clearly doesn’t give a shit about this, efficiently prowling her way around the apartment and investigating all the little nooks and crannies before circling right around to Fabron, and staring up at him. The kid just stares right back, as if the cat is an amazing wonder of nature, until Edith obviously gets impatient and meows at him. Fabron kneels carefully, and then starts petting her so gently he’s touching more air than fur.

“Here, let me show you,” Joly says, and eagerly trots over to them while Bossuet puts a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder.

“We have until four to get the cat out, although Enjolras made it pretty clear he’d prefer we not use the entire time,” Bossuet says. “And we’re supposed to send you down to the café when Fabron is safely out of the building. That won’t be too long, I think.”

Fabron is clearly a fast learner with the petting, because Edith is purring so loudly that Grantaire can hear it from across the room.

“Listen, we’re headed home with Edith, do you want to come along while your dads have some big important talk about their feelings?” Joly asks.

“Sure!” Fabron says, smiling, because apparently a purring cat is the most persuasive thing on the planet. He looks over at Grantaire, though, the usual caution coming back. “If that’s okay.”

“If you want to go, you should go. They’ll keep you safe, I promise,” Grantaire says. When Fabron still looks uncertain, he adds, “And they have a cat.”

“Her name is Edith,” Fabron says excitedly, back to being a weirdly happy child again.

“You can tell me more about Edith when you get back,” Grantaire says, and that’s all it takes. The kid’s been a nightmare of anxiety and mistrust and panic attacks since they found him, but apparently if you put a cat in front of Fabron, he’s almost normal. Fabron hands the cat over to Joly, runs to get his coat out of the guest bedroom, and is eagerly waiting at the door while Joly and Edith make a slow and easy progress towards the exit.

And then, it’s just Grantaire.

If Enjolras is expecting him downstairs, he might as well be there. It gives him a good time to bring up Fabron’s fucked up role in the crime ring that was run by whoever that rich bad guy with the awesome house was. If he’s supposed to be there at four, having this little gap of cat-lacking time is the perfect opportunity for that happy conversation.

Grantaire gathers his thoughts, tries to make some sort of plan of attack, and makes his way downstairs.


	6. Café Musain - Salle de Bain

The minute Grantaire steps into ABC’s unofficially private room, he isn’t sure if this is a presentation, or an intervention.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac are sitting politely near the stairs that lead down to the rest of the café, Montparnasse is lazing in the opposite corner chewing gum with shiny high-heeled boots propped on top of a table, Cosette is smiling encouragingly from a seat on the back wall, and Enjolras is standing stone rigid next to the shuttered window. ABC’s old projector screen they’d used for full organization briefings is next to him, set up and waiting. 

There’s a table ready and waiting for Grantaire, because it has a sketchpad, charcoal, cigarettes, a lighter (Enjolras’), and a bottle of disgustingly expensive wine that comes with a plain old glass cup instead of a fancy wine glass. It’s all set in a perfect arc in front of a single chair with an excellent view of the screen. There’s also a green binder set to the left of what is very obviously his seat, and, of all things, a _bucket_ to his right.

“Please, sit,” Enjolras says, voice rigid and formal. He’s following a script.

“This is all very nice, good job on the preparation, but we need to talk,” Grantaire says.

“We can talk after the presentation,” Enjolras says. “Please sit down.”

Grantaire tries very hard not to glare at him. “Look. I get that you planned this _a lot_ and you want to keep on schedule and everything, but you need to-”

“Grantaire, I swear to god, if you don’t get in that chair I will put you in it myself,” Enjolras snaps.

Before Grantaire can react beyond wide stunned eyes, Combeferre says, “Hey, it’s okay. Calm down. This is going to be fine, Enjolras. He just doesn’t know what you’re doing and has different priorities right now because of it.”

“He’s very nervous,” Courfeyrac adds for Grantaire’s benefit.

But when Grantaire really looks at Enjolras, it isn’t nervousness that looks back at him. There’s more than a little anxiety, his jaw clenched, eyes wide, brow furrowed, pursing his lips in between moments of marble stillness. He watches Enjolras swallow, and no, this is much more intense than _nervous_.

“That was uncalled for, and I apologize,” Enjolras says. “Please, sit down. I got you charcoal because you usually go for charcoal when you’re upset, but I also have pencils if you’d prefer, or-”

“It’s fine, don’t worry, you got it right,” Grantaire says, because that’s what Enjolras needs to hear, and sits down in his prepared seat. He leans forward, elbows planted on the table so he can be appropriately on the edge of his seat. “Okay, I’m sitting. Move on to step two.”

“Before I even turn on the projector, you need to know you can always walk away, or say stop. Say stop, and I’ll turn it off and stop talking. If you say pause, or just hold up a hand, or do _anything_ that might suggest you need to pause, everything stops, for however long you need. But we _do_ need to get through the whole thing, Grantaire,” Enjolras says. “We can go at your pace, and I’ll – I’d prefer if you held your questions until the end of the presentation, but I know that isn’t going to happen. Which is fine. Instead, I request you hold questions until the slide in question has been fully presented.”

“Can I ask a question?” Grantaire asks.

Enjolras looks confused, glancing over at the still very much not projected on screen, but then turns back to Grantaire and says, “Of course.”

“Why are we being supervised for this?” Grantaire asks. “Particularly by _Montparnasse_. Really, _is_ this some kind of intervention?”

“Partially,” Enjolras says. “You’ve already seen why Combeferre and Courfeyrac are here. Cosette’s here to support you, and when I asked Montparnasse he said – how’d you put it?”

“Crew for you, support group for him,” Montparnasse says, uncommonly inexpressive as he cracks his gum and then goes back to being surprisingly quiet.

“And that’s why everyone is here,” Enjolras concludes. “This is going to be difficult, and a support system would be very valuable.”

It’s very sensible, and very _planned_ , so Grantaire nods and sits back more comfortably. “Okay, you can start when you’re ready,” he says.

Enjolras has the controller thing in his hand already, so it takes two clicks in the palm of his hand for the projector to cheerily beep itself awake, adjust quickly, and project Enjolras’ very first slide.

_What’s Wrong With Me/Us, And How To Fix It_

“This presentation began as a straightforward run-through of what I’m currently struggling with, but as my work and research continued, I had no choice but to admit that many of the problems I was dealing with were entwined with your own,” Enjolras says. “Considering our lifestyle, that isn’t unexpected. However, if I am going to be healthy, you have to be healthy too. How things are now, this can’t be done successfully as an individual. Understand?”

“Understood,” Grantaire confirms. It’s not going to be fun, but if it would help Enjolras, Grantaire could force miracles out of his fingers. “Next slide.”

Enjolras obeys.

_Section 1 of 3: What’s Wrong With Me_

“I’m going to be saying this repeatedly, but none of this is your fault,” Enjolras says. “I mean that. _Nothing_ in this presentation – well, there’s one thing that’s you, but that is nowhere near this portion of the presentation. Ignore that I said that. We’ll get there. For now, I need you to try and see this as nothing but facts being presented to you. Can you do that?”

“I can try,” Grantaire says, because he really probably can’t, but he _will_ try.

Enjolras takes a deep breath in, lets it out slowly, and presses the button.

“ _Stop_ ,” Grantaire says immediately, the second he can see the slide’s title.

_What is Torture?_

Enjolras turns it off, and the screen goes back to being a white canvas, but oh god, oh _fuck_ , Grantaire is shaking and his throat feels like it’s closed up and it takes no time for Enjolras to rush forward and hold him, whispering, “It’s okay, I’m getting better, everything’s going to be fine, Grantaire, it’s okay.”

“It can’t be fine, how can you say it’s fine, how can you _possibly_ say that,” Grantaire manages to say.

“Because it _will_ be fine, Grantaire,” Enjolras says, using that unstoppable tone of voice that means if he isn’t right he’s going to destroy or create as many things as necessary to ensure that he’ll be right in the end. “It’s going to be fine, and I need to show you the rest. Tell me when you’re ready.”

It takes Grantaire a few minutes of meaningless reassurances and deep breaths, but eventually, he says, “You can continue now.”

The slide was nowhere near done, it turns out.

_What is Torture?_

_The action or practice of inflicting severe pain on someone as a punishment or to force them to do or say something, or for the pleasure of the person inflicting the pain._

There are more definitions, more technical jargon about what definition was used where, legal definitions and psychological definitions, but Grantaire doesn’t fucking care. He just pulls out a cigarette and starts smoking while Enjolras narrates about _targets_ and _the perpetrator_ and Grantaire intentionally keeps his awareness of what Enjolras is actually saying to a minimum.

 _The Basic Theory of Effective Torture_ pops up after the thrilling Torture 101 lecture.

\- _Remove target from comfort zone(s)_  
\- _Make target feel helpless_  
\- _Inflict pain for seemingly no reason_  
\- _Conversely, do give a reason. Giving the target a psychological focus can be used for stability, or additional pain, or both._

_Torturer’s goal is not physical pain, but lasting psychological damage._

Grantaire can tell what’s coming from how Enjolras’ voice becomes more and more rigid, more and more _practiced_. It’s like he’s reading off invisible cue cards, and he’s stopped meeting Grantaire’s eyes, because they both know it’s coming.

“Pause,” Grantaire says while Enjolras is covering how psychological pain alters the feeling of physical pain.

Enjolras is true to his word. The slide stays up, but he goes silent. The entire room is silent. It makes the inelegant sloshing of fine wine into an everyday cup deafening.

Grantaire doesn’t drink. He slowly slides the glass across the table inside the little protective barrier Enjolras made for him, left, and then right, and then left again.

“You don’t actually have to do this,” Grantaire finally tells Enjolras, even if he just keeps standing there, looking at Grantaire’s hands instead of his face or daring to look him in the eye. “I know you, and that means I know you are about to start telling me the excruciatingly painful details of what happened to you. You’re about to tell me every single thing that hurt, and how badly it hurt, and I don’t want that, Enjolras. I don’t want that, and you don’t either.”

“I want to be as honest as possible with you,” Enjolras says, planting his hands quietly on the top of a nearby table, grounding himself as he finally looks into Grantaire’s eyes again. “You have the right to know all of this. You _need_ to know this. If you’re going to understand-”

“Okay, here’s how this is going to happen,” Grantaire says, and scoots down in his chair so that he can kick out the other chair that faces him. “You’re going to sit there, and you’re not going to use your undoubtedly wonderful little presentation, and you’re going to tell me what you think is important for me to know. Not _everything_. Not what hurt the most. I want to hear from _you_ , not the speech you’ve been working on for however many days.”

“I’ve been working on this speech for a reason, Grantaire,” Enjolras says.

“I know that,” Grantaire says. “I know it’s harder for you, but I’m asking anyway.” But, Enjolras looks like he’s in physical pain, so he says, “Please. You can use your slides, but at the very least, don’t use your prepared dialogue.”

It must be a good enough compromise, since Enjolras lets out a long exhausted sigh, nods, and finally walks over and falls into the chair facing Grantaire.

Grantaire slides the glass across to him.

Enjolras looks down at the red wine for a moment, like he’s staring at his reflection in the alcohol, and then picks up the glass and drinks. He drinks all of it in one long series of harsh gulps, but somehow it's still too dignified for Grantaire to call it chugging. The glass thuds back down on the table far too loudly, and Enjolras slides it back to Grantaire without looking at him.

“Alright,” Enjolras says, and clicks forward to the next slide. It’s now projecting directly behind him, and it would be impossible for Enjolras to see the slide. “Unscripted, as requested.”

 _Reichard Loudin’s Actions Against Me Were Literally Torture_ is the depressingly unsurprising title. The rest of the slide is a lovely two-column comparison, the left column titled as _Common Torture Methodology_ and the right as _Personal Experience_ and Grantaire isn’t sure whether or not he’s glad that son of a bitch is dead, he really isn’t.

“The overarching plan was very simple, or the end game was at least,” Enjolras says. “Make us miserable, kill you, and at the end I have to live on as the result of all the torture and trauma he’d put me through.”

For a moment, Enjolras hesitates, like he’s trying to decide whether or not to jump off a cliff, but after a moment he moves on to the next slide.

“Now, step one of any well-planned torture session – the shocking beginning,” Enjolras says. “These are things like suddenly getting a bag thrown over your head and abducted, or armed and armored men breaking into your home and screaming at you. Reichard was subtle, but probably more effective. _Definitely_ more effective where I'm concerned. I wake up and learn that you’ve died in a museum fire.”

Enjolras moves to the next slide. Grantaire doesn’t even look at it.

“Step two – remove anything and everything reassuring or comforting,” Enjolras continues. “You were gone. Our home was physically destroyed. I was forced to leave home with no personal equipment, with no real idea of where I was going. I had little to no contact with friends, and I was stuck with Montparnasse, who, at the time, was more or less sabotaging me. I didn’t even have my own clothes. I had nothing but panic and obsession.”

The next slide is up, and when Enjolras is just silent, Grantaire looks at the title. _Make The Target Feel Helpless_.

“I felt very, very helpless,” Enjolras says quietly, and moves on.

Grantaire glances at the next slide, and has a deep sinking feeling when he sees how very many bullet points there are in both of his comparative columns. “The core of your standard torture session is this part,” Enjolras says. “Inflict pain for seemingly no reason. Or, inflict pain in a way that would make the target focus intensely on one thing.”

“Me,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras nods, and drags a hand down his face. “This one more or less covers _everything_. I didn’t know why this was happening. I didn’t know _what_ was happening. I was just hurting so fucking badly and I didn’t know why and all I could think of was you. I – god, I fucking _hallucinated_ that you were there, Grantaire. And I can’t remember the last time I was alone for so long, and I was stuck there in that train compartment with nothing to do and nobody to talk to and then you answered the phone and I just _snapped_. God, I snapped _twice_ , didn’t I? I’m the one who broke, Grantaire, not you.”

“You’re not broken,” Grantaire says.

“I am _very_ broken,” Enjolras says, and oh fuck, he looks like he’s going to cry, eyes wet, but his face is shut down so hard even punching him in the nose wouldn’t shift him. “Reichard Loudin was a very clever man who knew what he was doing. His plan only half succeeded, thankfully. I’ve seen what happens in a situation like he had planned and I am so fucking grateful it turned out this way that I could pass out from the overwhelming relief.”

The look of resolve that suddenly crosses Enjolras’ face is the only thing that keeps Grantaire from jumping in surprise when Enjolras stands up, knocks the chair aside, and strides over to the laptop.

“Enjolras,” Combeferre calls out with a distinctly warning tone.

“I need to do this, now is the time,” Enjolras says, voice rigid, and Grantaire watches as the What’s Wrong With Us PowerPoint goes down. There’s a single moment of this week’s desktop picture (Shetland ponies wearing cardigans) followed by a few boring screens, and then the tell-tale black screen opening that Enjolras uses for every single one of his mission briefing presentations.

Grantaire can’t help but agree with Combeferre, giving Enjolras a dubious frown. “Really, _is_ now the time?”

“I've been putting this off for too long. Yes, it is,” Enjolras states, and rapidly clicks through a few slides. Grantaire gets flashes of sentences that he _must_ be misreading, like ‘I did this and I regret it’ and ‘This presentation is a terrible idea.’ Well, that one Grantaire could believe. But eventually, it settles on the more than a little bland face of some kind of police person, judging from the uniform. “Viktor Hordiyenko. Five years ago, we went to Kiev to kill him. Do you remember that?”

Grantaire frowns. “Not rea – wait, yes. Oh yes, I _definitely_ remember that. This Hordiyenko guy is the one who drugged you?”

“No. I was drugged by _this_ man, Serhiy,” Enjolras says, and clicks forward through another couple of slides to show a middle-aged man who is…also kind of nondescript, really. There’s nothing special about him, aside from that his smile is sort of charming. “I went to Serhiy for information on Viktor, and he knocked me out, tied me up, and drugged me because I was there to kill his boyfriend.”

“Ohhh,” Grantaire says. “So-”

“Serhiy threatened you,” Enjolras says, fast, almost frantic. “He said he was hurting you, he had this ridiculous blurry picture that I was stupid enough to believe was you, and I got angry and scared and escaped and got back to the hotel and you know how the rest goes, you were there. But that isn’t the point. The point is that I know why Reichard did this, because I did it too. I know why _this_ was his endgame, because it was mine, too. And-”

“ _Pause_ ,” Grantaire snaps, and he has no idea what he’s feeling other than that it is _not_ good. It feels like tar dripping down his throat and across his heart. Enjolras obviously knows it, because he is silent, as promised, but his shoulders are rigid and his impeccable impassive stone face is on and Enjolras is very, very ready for a fight. Grantaire just has to decide if he’s going to give him one. “I need you to answer me very clearly. Have you tortured people? Not heat of the moment ‘tell me the password’ torturing, I mean _torture_ torture.”

“One time. Only once,” Enjolras says. Grantaire watches the color drain out of his face, watches Enjolras turn from defensive and prepared to completely horror-struck. “And it didn’t register. I didn’t even know I was doing it. I was just – I wanted to hurt him for doing that to me, and I hunted them down. I didn't need to, but I did. And when I found them, they were peaceful. They were just _living_ , and I did it anyway, I couldn’t think past the hate and revenge and how fucking scared he’d made me, I had to make him _suffer_. I don’t even know what I expected, but whatever it was, it wasn’t _that_. And I learned my lesson, Grantaire, never worry about that. I swear you will never have to worry about me doing this again. It was horrible. I will _never_ do it again. Ever.”

Grantaire stands and can barely find the air to ask, “Oh god, Enjolras, what did you do?”

Enjolras shakes his head, eyelids squeezed shut painfully tight. “I thought it’d be fair. I thought I'd feel better. I told myself _he deserves this_ , and I was so, oh _fuck_ , I was so sure that I’d _like_ it, that for some reason it would feel good, and _satisfying_ , but god, he. He was _dead_ , and he said. He said he pit-” Enjolras whispers, and cuts himself off so sharply it hurts, not breathing, not moving. Grantaire is frozen, staring in horror.

“ _Okay_ , break time!” Courfeyrac shouts, quickly rocking out of the chair and onto his feet.

It must be a previously arranged cue, because Cosette is suddenly next to Grantaire, carefully pulling his half-ashes cigarette out of frozen fingers before rubbing Grantaire’s back, gently soothing. “You’re doing great, and you’re going to keep doing great,” Cosette says, smiling at him because she means it. She always means it. “You can do this, I promise.”

Grantaire doesn’t even know what he’s supposed to be doing. Is he meant to just, what, sit here? Wait patiently while Enjolras fights his way through the memory of all of the terrible shit he’s gone through? He’s terrified, and he feels ready to vomit, and more than anything else, Grantaire wants for this to have never happened. _None of it._ He’s a stupid fucking fool for it but he wants happiness and ignorance and _Enjolras_ , not this.

“It’s just _mean_ now, for fuck’s sake, let them go,” Montparnasse calls out from his corner.

There’s whispering that Grantaire doesn’t even try to make out, and a strange moment of shuffling within the triumvirate, and then Grantaire just doesn't fucking care. He walks on over because fuck whatever plans he’s ruining. Grantaire weaves through the tables with Cosette trailing behind him, and Combeferre and Courfeyrac step back so that his path to Enjolras is clear.

He’s still just standing there, a perfect statue of traumatized beauty, and Grantaire hates it. He hates it, he wants to scream in Enjolras’ face _what the fuck did you do_ and wants to walk out and wants to curl up with him in a warm soft bed and never leave, never feel anything but the pulse of his blood and the rhythm of his breath.

Grantaire doesn’t know what to do. He just stands there, looking at Enjolras, and doesn’t know what to do.

“I wish I’d never found them,” Enjolras whispers.

And that decides it. Grantaire takes one of Enjolras’ hands in his own and gently pries open his white-knuckled fist, and hooks their fingers together, saying, “Your presentation is done for the day.”

“No, it’s not,” Enjolras says, but he looks alive now, finally actually looking at Grantaire. “It can’t be. If I don’t finish this today, I never will.”

“Then consider this an extra long pause,” Grantaire says, and starts pulling Enjolras towards the private door that leads to the stairwell.

Combeferre makes a protesting noise, but is immediately shushed by at least two other people.

Enjolras lets himself be tugged along, an apprehensive silence between them all the way into the apartment. When the door shuts behind them, Grantaire keeps pulling until he sits them down on the couch and releases Enjolras’ hand.

For a long time, they just sit there, silent, not looking at each other.

And then Enjolras sniffles once, twice, and sneezes.

Grantaire’s baffled for a moment – Enjolras is very rarely sick – before he groans, the pieces slotting into place. He gives Enjolras an incredulous look. “You’re shitting me. The cat wasn’t even in here for ten minutes.”

“My allergies don’t seem to care,” Enjolras says, and it’s _absurd_ , the cat was in here for no time at all but Enjolras’ eyes are already getting red, and he’s scowling around the living room like he can make the shadow of Fiona feel guilty for doing this to him.

“The cat was on this couch for about two seconds,” Grantaire says, disbelieving. “You can’t really be this sensitive-”

“What do you want, Grantaire?” Enjolras snaps, and it isn’t even a little bit intimidating, because he’s still sniffling.

“I want you to not be miserable, for one, so get off of the couch,” Grantaire says, and frowns, thinking back. The cat _had_ gone prowling all around the apartment, but – fuck it. He gets Enjolras off of the couch and starts leading him into the one room he’s sure the cat didn’t investigate (and he is also willing to be in with Enjolras).

“Is there a reason we’re in-” Enjolras begins, only to cut himself off with another sneeze.

“Oh my god, you’re ridiculous,” Grantaire says, and grabs the tissues off of the toilet, handing them over. “The cat didn’t come in the bathroom, it’s the best I can do for now.”

“And what exactly _are_ we doing?” Enjolras asks, even though it’s kind of pathetic, sniffling once again. There is no way he can be this sensitive. “If you want to say something in private, say it, but whatever you want to bring up is probably in the rest of the presentation.”

Grantaire honestly isn’t quite sure why he did this. He just needed to get Enjolras alone somewhere without everyone else, just wanted to, god, Grantaire doesn’t even know. He just wanted to leave everything, and see Enjolras. So, he stalls and says, “I can’t have this conversation when you look so pathetic.”

Enjolras scowls at him, and then he sneezes again, and then he scowls at _existence_ and starts taking his shoes off. He sits on the edge of the rarely-used bathtub, and sniffles, and pulls his socks off too. “Fine,” he says. “Give me time to wash the cat poison off-”

“Stop being overdramatic,” Grantaire says, but still takes the socks when Enjolras hands them over. When Enjolras pulls his shirt off, Grantaire just holds a hand out and waits. “Take a bath instead so you don’t end up whining about the water getting cold when I do laundry.”

“We need to hire cleaners. Industrial-strength cleaners,” Enjolras mutters, and sneezes, but obeys, shutting the tub’s drain and turning on a disproportionate amount of hot water to cold. He may or may not be planning to boil himself alive. His pants and underwear come off just as quickly, and then he just sits down in the barely toe-deep water giving Grantaire a weirdly challenging bloodshot stare.

“How are you this pathetic,” Grantaire says. “How can you be _you_ , but turn into a whiny sniffling baby when a cat’s in the same building. I just can’t take you seriously when you’re like this.”

“You wouldn’t understand, you aren’t allergic to anything,” Enjolras says.

“I’m allergic to walnuts,” Grantaire points out.

“Anything that you don’t have control over, then,” Enjolras says, and rubs a hand across his eyes. “You can just watch what you eat and be fine, but I have to just _hope_ there’s no cat. Or keep my apartment cat-free.”

“This is so fucking stupid. The cat was _your_ idea, Enjolras,” Grantaire says.

“Yes it was. And it worked,” Enjolras says firmly.

Grantaire fights very hard to keep from rolling his eyes. “Fine, you win. You planned this, you’re responsible for this, and it’s all because of you. Are you proud? Is the misery you’re suffering through right now really worth it?”

He can tell it’s the wrong thing to say as soon as the words leave his mouth. Enjolras drops his eyes, expression shutting off completely, impassively watching the water pour into the tub. The gentle splashing barely covers the sound of Enjolras’ occasional sniffle, and the rare but still there hitch in his breathing. Grantaire just stands there, watching searing-hot water rise and Enjolras just sit there, still, like there's nothing left inside of him.

“I know you’re not okay,” Grantaire finally says.

“Good. I just gave you an extremely long presentation explaining that,” Enjolras says.

“Right. And letting me know was the entire point,” Grantaire says. “So why are you so defensive?”

“I’m not defensive,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire is about to get into a _yes you are, no I’m not_ argument, but Enjolras stops him, speaking before Grantaire can start. “I’m _not_. The problem is that I’ve spent so much time not talking about this, trying to not even _think_ about this, that it’s not easy to talk.” He sighs, and leans his head against the edge of the tub. “I’ll do better.”

And Grantaire despises it, because Enjolras _will_ do better – or do what he thinks is better, at least. Sometimes he fucks up, but it’s always followed by _I’ll do better_ , and Grantaire watches him change himself just enough to fit what he thinks he’s supposed to be. In some ways, it’s a good thing. In others, it’s horrific, because it’s not _Enjolras_ that changes, it’s his actions. He tries so fucking hard, asks so much of himself, and Grantaire is always right here, doing exactly this – telling him what’s wrong, and expecting him to fix it.

Grantaire expects the impossible from Enjolras, because he can do the impossible. But, that doesn’t mean he should be _expected_ to perform miracles over and over again.

Enjolras is flawed – _extremely_ flawed – and they both just need to fucking deal with it instead of trying to fix it.

“If you don’t want to talk about it, don’t talk about it,” Grantaire says, and drops Enjolras’ clothing on the floor.

Enjolras frowns. “The entire point of this-”

“Is stupid,” Grantaire says, and after a moment of trying to decide how bad of an idea this is, he pulls off his shoes, awkwardly jumping his way through getting his socks off too. “I just want you happy and safe. That’s pretty much the core of all I’ve ever wanted. If you think talking about this will help you be happy and safe, do it. Otherwise, don’t.”

“You deserve to know what’s wrong with me, whether I want to talk about it or not,” Enjolras says, and when Grantaire starts pulling off his shirt, he quickly holds up a hand with wide eyes. “ _Stop_ , what are you doing?”

“My plan was just to hug you a lot,” Grantaire says. “It’s not much of a plan, but that’s what I’ve got.”

Enjolras just stares at him. It’s most definitely not an objection. And then he drops his hand, which, with Enjolras, is the equivalent of saying _please_. Still, he said stop to clothing removal, so Grantaire just steps into the mostly-full bathtub fully clothed, although he hisses at the temperature and adjusts the faucet so they don’t get boiled alive.

It’s a tight fit, but Enjolras makes room for him, even though the way they end up positioned isn’t quite what Grantaire intended. The second Grantaire squishes himself in to the side, Enjolras wraps his arms around him and _tugs_ , and now Grantaire is more or less held in his lap, legs stretched out towards the faucet with Enjolras’ head planted firmly against the lovingly bruised curve of Grantaire’s neck.

“I was going to ask if you’re okay, but that seems kind of unnecessary,” Grantaire says, although he can’t help the softness in his voice. He doesn’t want to. Enjolras doesn’t reply, which isn’t surprising.

They just sit there, water rising and rising, Enjolras’ breathing far from steady against Grantaire’s skin, and he is very obviously not prepared to let go. Time passes quietly, Enjolras' sniffles disappearing entirely, and Grantaire is more than happy to let Enjolras just hold him.

When Grantaire shifts to shut the water off, Enjolras’ arms tighten around him. “Leave it,” he says.

It shouldn’t be a difficult decision, but it is. On one hand, they end up with water spilling onto the tile floor and potential water damage. On the other, Enjolras is holding on to him like he’ll float away if he lets go, and the thought of breaking that link even for a moment, particularly when Enjolras has asked him not to, is painful.

Enjolras might loathe compromise, but Grantaire can figure it out. He decides to go with the same method as earlier and slides down Enjolras’ lap so that he can stretch his legs far enough to practically kick the faucet off. It leaves Enjolras’ arms wrapped loosely around his upper torso, and it’s a good enough angle that Grantaire can finally look up and actually see Enjolras’ face.

He would call it grief if Enjolras’ eyes weren’t hot and fixed intently on Grantaire. It’s a strange blend of deep regret and (mostly) unexpected _want_ , and Grantaire is more than ready to welcome it.

But, Enjolras looks away, and lets out a long breath, closing his eyes tightly. “You should get out,” he says.

“Is that a direct request, or a suggestion?” Grantaire asks.

Enjolras makes a frustrated noise, and drops his forehead onto the side of the tub. “I don’t know. This is what I’m trying to stop and we need to fix, but oh god, Grantaire, I want – I _need_ to – just. Fuck it, _fuck it_ , I’m giving you a blowjob,” he says, and shifts, pushing Grantaire against the side of the tub and starts awkwardly unzipping his pants.

It takes a moment for Grantaire to process exactly what's happening, but he is more than happy to accommodate, trying to help Enjolras with his pants and breathing out, “Well okay then.”

The second Grantaire gets involved, Enjolras pushes forward and kisses him, hard and desperate and clumsy, a sudden frantic push of tongues and teeth as Grantaire abandons his pants and gets a wet hand in Enjolras’ completely dry fucked up hair. He tugs, lightly, just enough to make Enjolras' breath stutter for a moment, a staccato rush of hot air against Grantaire's mouth.

When Enjolras manages to get Grantaire’s submerged pants and underwear, barely pulled over his hips, Enjolras goes rigid, and pulls away. He's frozen, staring into Grantaire's eyes.

“What’s wrong? If something’s wrong we can stop. That’s no problem. You can change your mind,” Grantaire says quickly.

“You’re okay with this, right?” Enjolras asks.

“ _Absolutely_ ,” Grantaire says, which at least has Enjolras breathing again, but he still doesn’t look comfortable. “Just tell me what to do and it’s done, whatever you need-”

“God, I’m so fucking bad at my plan,” Enjolras says, and manages to hoist Grantaire onto the edge of the tub, his back pressed uncomfortably against the wall. Enjolras quickly drags Grantaire’s completely soaked pants and underwear off and tosses them onto the bathroom floor with a sopping squish noise.

It makes Grantaire wince. Water has definitely splashed onto the floor, too. They are going to need a mop.

Enjolras clearly is unaffected by this, because he gets a firm grip on Grantaire’s knees and pushes his thighs apart. “Please, _please_ don’t regret this,” he breathes out, and it doesn’t even matter that Grantaire is barely half hard, Enjolras still leans forward and wraps his lips around Grantaire’s cock, sucking him inside of his gorgeous mouth with a wet, high-pitched, agonizing noise.

Grantaire whimpers, tightening his grip on Enjolras’ hair, because _oh god_. From the way Enjolras is going, the way he’s breathing roughly and there’s a slight tremor in the hands holding on to Grantaire’s knees, he can tell this will be fast and rough and _amazing_. But Enjolras said he _needs_ this, and Grantaire isn’t sure what that means, he has no fucking clue and it’s so hard to think beyond Enjolras’ mouth and tongue and lips eagerly coaxing Grantaire’s cock towards desperation.

“I don’t know what you want,” Grantaire manages to say, and there is no doubt he’s hard, just as there’s no doubt Enjolras is merciless, lips dragging up and down his cock, relentless. Grantaire can only hold on and try to breathe. “Oh _fuck_ , Enjolras, just – how could I regret this?”

It must be the right thing to say, because Enjolras whimpers, one hand splashing into the water and wrapping around his own cock. Grantaire drags his hand through Enjolras’ hair, breathing roughly while his other hand keeps a hold of the bathtub to hopefully not fall over and ruin everything, he’d hate to ruin everything. He gasps as Enjolras pulls off and the cold air hits his agonizingly sensitive skin.

“Tell me you’re happy,” Enjolras says, voice rough, other hand releasing Grantaire’s knee to start stroking him while Enjolras gets his breath back, still breathing against Grantaire’s cock, looking like this is a forced break during his favorite game.

“You make me happy,” Grantaire says obediently.

“No, you – _mean it_ , Grantaire,” Enjolras says, and moans, and Grantaire finally remembers Enjolras is frantically jerking off beneath the water. From the way Enjolras’ eyelashes flutter for just a moment, it’s going well.

But Enjolras looks up into Grantaire’s eyes, fierce and feverish and a little bit unhinged, and Grantaire fucks up. “But you _don’t_ make me happy,” he says.

Enjolras squeezes his eyes shut, lips red and just parted, breath rough, and dives back down, tongue leading the way as he groans his way down Grantaire’s cock.

“I’m not happy, you never make me happy,” Grantaire says, and his grip on the tub is white-knuckled, Enjolras sucking like his life depends on it. “Oh _fuck_ , fuck you, Enjolras, you don’t make me happy, you make me _miserable_ , I fucking hate you sometimes but _god_ , I am so in love with you, it’s so bad, it’s insane, _fuck_ , I am completely yours, can’t live without you-”

Enjolras pulls off of Grantaire’s cock so carelessly fast it _hurts_ , there are unguarded teeth, and he tries to bite down on his shout but completely fails to, particularly since Enjolras grabs his hips and pulls him forward. Grantaire splashes into the water, barely arresting his fall with the hand still latched onto the lip of the tub. Water spills over the edge _again_ , but the thought evaporates because Enjolras is grabbing his ass and already pushing the tip of a finger inside of him, with just the slightest bit of pressure.

“Yes?” Enjolras says urgently, and he’s shaking, pressing his forehead against Grantaire’s and staring into his eyes, frantic and hot and so full of wanting that it’s hypnotic.

When Grantaire just stares, dazed, he starts to pull away, and that is _not_ okay, so Grantaire releases his grip on the tub and forces Enjolras’ finger back, deeper. “ _Fuck_ yes, I want this, I’ve been begging you to fuck me for a _week._ Please, Enjolras. Yes. _Please_.”

“Oh thank god,” Enjolras says, and shifts them again, pushing Grantaire against the end of the tub, which is _much_ better for bathtub sex. He drags their lips together, inelegant, and Grantaire really does not give a fuck because he has a handful of Enjolras’ stupid hair and Enjolras is going to fuck him and he shoves his tongue inside Enjolras’ mouth because they don’t need pleasantries.

Enjolras gets with the plan quickly, unceremoniously thrusting a second finger inside Grantaire, and actual lube would be good, but water works too, awkwardly, and Grantaire is more than willing to deal with letting out a hissing noise, and then a groan, and he can deal with a little discomfort. Grantaire takes a moment to try and get out of his shirt, and it only ends up caught under his arms because he refuses to stop touching Enjolras, or stop kissing Enjolras. He refuses to stop and if someone tries to stop them he will probably murder them.

When Enjolras finally adds a third finger, Grantaire is so ready, he is so fucking ready, he pulls his mouth away from Enjolras’ and says, “Now. _Now._ ”

“You aren’t in control here,” Enjolras says, but he still shoves Grantaire’s back against the front of the tub, his fingers thrusting harder and faster.

“And you are? Like I can’t tell you’re about to lose your fucking mind,” Grantaire bites out, panting, and grabs onto Enjolras’ shoulder because Enjolras pulled his fingers out, fuck yes. “You’re going to come in less time-”

“Shut up,” Enjolras says, and pushes inside with an unfiltered moan that could probably get Grantaire off all on its own. It’s so fucking weird with the water shifting around them, rocking as Enjolras just fucking buries himself inside of Grantaire, all the way, breathing roughly against Grantaire’s shoulder. “God I love you.”

“That’s nice, now _fuck me_ ,” Grantaire snaps.

“Shut _up_ ,” Enjolras says, and does.

He’s in control for about three thrusts, slow and deep and fantastic, but Grantaire was absolutely right. Rational yet frantic and slightly guilty Enjolras disappears pretty fucking fast, replaced by the Enjolras who manages to talk filth in Grantaire’s ear that could make someone faint and does things like _this_. 

Sex-mode Enjolras says, “You were made for me, Grantaire,” and shoves Grantaire down deeper into the water so he can slam inside of Grantaire at an angle that leaves him seeing brilliant spots of light and it's rough and it's hard and Grantaire is moaning like his life depends on it, both hands grabbing onto the edge of the tub just to try and keep his head out of the water and fucking _breathe_ as Enjolras pants above him and tears Grantaire apart in the most amazing way.

It’s fast, and _glorious_ , and it does not take very long for Grantaire to come. At all. Enjolras’ hand just barely sweeps across his cock and Grantaire chokes out something like a shout as it rushes through him, shuddering, and he loses his grip and crashes completely into the water and doesn’t fucking care it’s so good. He feels and sees and hears Enjolras come, everything a blur beneath the water, and Enjolras drags him back out into the air long before Grantaire even feels the need to breathe.

Enjolras kisses him. It’s lazy and exhausted and he kisses Grantaire again and again, eventually moving and dragging Grantaire against him, again. But this time there’s kissing. They sit there doing nothing but kissing and touching for long enough that the water isn’t warm anymore and Grantaire feels nice and content all over again. Life is beautifully manageable and everything is going to be okay.

Eventually, someone knocks on the door.

Enjolras just loudly says, “No.”

Since absolutely nobody who can get into their apartment would be even a little bit surprised by the current situation, Grantaire says, “Who is it?”

“ _No_ ,” Enjolras says, louder, and tightens his grip on Grantaire. “I give up. I don’t fucking care about-”

“I don’t care what you don’t care about,” Montparnasse shouts through the door, which is definitely not who Grantaire was expecting. He's obviously pissed off, and makes a frustrated noise. “Okay, that’s it, I’m done. You know what?”

And then he just opens the door and walks inside.

“See, I’ve got shit to do,” Montparnasse says. “But you say _serious shit’s going down, we could use support, Montparnasse_ , so hey, you matter, I’m here, but – the fuck?” He looks down at the pile of clothes in horror, particularly the soaking wet ones flung across the room. “You – are you _still_ wearing a shirt? How stupid are you?”

“Please leave,” Enjolras says, voice surprisingly quiet.

“That’s the _problem_ ,” Montparnasse says, and Grantaire can only assume Enjolras gives him some weird look or something because Montparnasse rolls his eyes. “This is nowhere near the worst thing I’ve walked in on with you two crazies. You’re naked, I don’t give a fuck, I’m not invited to. Thing is, I am here for _you_ assholes, and if you’re just going to fuck in a bathtub then that’s your thing, you two be you, but let me know so I don’t have to just fucking sit down there, _waiting._ For _nothing_.”

“Oh shit, Cosette,” Grantaire blurts out, and moves to stand since Montparnasse genuinely wouldn’t give a fuck if he saw Grantaire naked, but Enjolras just keeps on holding on to him, refusing to let Grantaire move. Grantaire frowns at him. “What? She has baby things to go take care of! We can’t just leave her sitting around. Are we doing this or not?”

“For god’s – just throw me the shirt,” Montparnasse says, and Grantaire probably should wonder about this but instead he just strips and tosses it over to the grimacing idiot who asked for it in the first place. He scoops up _all_ of the clothes, and says, “ _Ugh_. Stay here.”

“Don’t slip. The floor’s a mess,” Grantaire says.

“I walk fine through _blood_ in these boots,” Montparnasse says, and walks out.

“Actually, as wet floors go, I’m pretty sure water is more dangerous,” Grantaire says.

When he turns to ask Enjolras’ opinion, any and all good mood evaporates.

Enjolras looks exhausted, and sad, and resigned, like he’s accepted whatever pitiful fate has left him looking like this because he just doesn’t have the strength to fight it anymore.

“We can’t just stay here,” Enjolras says, and finally releases his very tight hold on Grantaire. He slides away, and stands up. It must take more coordination than Enjolras expected, since he has to stop and hold on to the edge of the bathtub to steady himself. Grantaire automatically reaches out to try and steady him as he nearly rolls back after catching his foot on Grantaire’s shin, but Enjolras ignores the outstretched hand, stomping his way onto the slick tile floor and nearly falling all over again.

Grantaire reaches out again, but, again, Enjolras manages to catch himself. Grantaire still says, “Are you-”

“I’m fine,” Enjolras says, much more forcefully than necessary, and carefully walks over to grab a towel.

And then he tosses the towel down on the floor right next to the bathtub. It’s immediately soaked, while Enjolras still has water dripping down his skin.

Grantaire is not impressed.

“You're right, it’s dangerous, I don’t want you to slip when you get out,” Enjolras says, like Grantaire is the ridiculous one here, and motions behind him. “I’m just going to put on my shoes, I’ll be fine. Meanwhile, unless I toss your shoes in the water-”

The door swings opens without warning. Montparnasse walks in with an armful of perfectly folded clothing, saying, “Got you both-” before his words cut off sharply. He made it probably five steps in before really registering what he’s seeing, and they are all prophets. That, or they all have more common sense than Montparnasse, because he misses step number six, and Grantaire just groans in sympathy and a little bit of schadenfreude as Enjolras just as instinctively catches him before he and all the clothing can tumble down.

“Be careful,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire can see Montparnasse is just about to seize up or freak out or who the fuck knows what, grip on the clothes loosening, so Grantaire does the first thing he can think of, which is to shout, “Enjolras, for fuck’s sake-”

“Stop touching me,” Montparnasse says so coldly that Grantaire has a strange moment of wondering if he’s been misinterpreting Montparnasse since, well, _always_. He doesn’t exactly have a good view of his face, what with Enjolras more or less having him in some sort of elegant foxtrot dipping situation, but he must be at least a little serious, because Enjolras immediately pushes Montparnasse into a stable position and steps backwards, even raising his arms in surrender.

“I was trying to help,” Enjolras says carefully.

“You did. Don’t do it again,” Montparnasse says, and separates half of the clothing and hands it over to Enjolras. “Get out, get dressed, you’re forgiven, go away _right now_.”

Enjolras looks at Montparnasse for a moment, eyes wide and a little bit stunned. He opens his mouth, and then seems to think better of it and shuts it. Then, he obeys, just takes the clothing and leaves.

“Well. That was definitely unexpected, but not quite surprising,” Grantaire says.

Montparnasse walks to the sink, drops the clothing that Grantaire assumes is his on the counter, and then makes a very strange noise and bashes his head against the rolled up socks on the very top of Grantaire’s pile. Even with the padding, there’s an audible _thud_ noise.

“Your life is so hard,” Grantaire says, and unplugs the drain.

“Fuck you too,” Montparnasse mutters, and straightens up again, shaking his arms and hands out like it'll somehow fling the entire incident away. After making another very strange noise, something between to clearing his throat and whining, he grabs the remaining towel and throws it towards Grantaire, who catches it easily. “Right. Going downstairs now.” He hesitates, giving Grantaire a careful look. “He closes doors, right?”

“Yes he does, but you should know he’s going to want to talk about your personal boundaries and physical contact issues now,” Grantaire says, and grins.

“Jesus Christ,” Montparnasse says, and leaves while Grantaire watches the water drain.

\---

Presentation round two starts the second Grantaire walks into the room. Enjolras is already sitting next to the projector, looking exhausted, and a little bit guilty, so Grantaire imagines he was lightly scolded for their somewhat extended _pause_ session. Cosette is sitting with the triumvirate boys, and Montparnasse is back in his corner looking incredibly uncomfortable, and Grantaire just sighs and sits in almost perfect coordination with the moment Enjolras stands.

The next slide goes up.

_Section 2 of 3: What’s Wrong With Us_

“First, procedural reminders,” Enjolras says. “You can always leave, you can say stop and it all stops, you can say pause and we pause-”

“For a reasonable amount of time,” Combeferre interrupts, giving Enjolras a surprisingly disappointed look.

“I _know_ , Combeferre,” Enjolras says, and takes a deep breath, and continues. “A lot of this section, I think we already know. Some of it is things we need to acknowledge, and some of it is…less comfortable.” He squeezes his eyes shut, almost a long slow wince. “This is not going to be enjoyable or fun.”

“But it’ll help you,” Grantaire says, which makes Enjolras look at him, so surprised that Grantaire is almost offended. Still, he trusts Enjolras about the thrilling adventure ahead of them, so he pours himself some of the wine. “Okay, go, but if it’s something we both already know, I’m telling you to skip it.”

Enjolras frowns. “Why?”

“Because if you just stand there and read off definitions of codependency, I’m probably going to just roll my eyes and zone out while you blab on,” Grantaire says, and takes a drink. “And by the time you get to the important shit, I’m just going to nod and say _yes, good, I understand_ whenever it seems like you need a response, and it’s a waste of everyone’s time.”

“That’s – you do that with _every single briefing_ , don’t you,” Enjolras says, horrified.

“Yep,” Grantaire says, and waves him on.

“Is that why you’ve never laughed at the jokes?” Enjolras asks. “They’re not bad, you’re just not listening.”

“Oh, trust me, they’re bad,” Courfeyrac says. “Move on, Enjolras.”

Enjolras is obviously torn, but nods, and clicks forward to the already expected codependency slide. “There are a _lot_ of things you might not recognize,” he says, like it’s a warning.

“Skip,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras sighs, but clicks forward. Again. And again. And _again_.

“This is very thorough, isn’t it,” Grantaire says.

“If I’m doing this, I’m doing it right,” Enjolras says firmly, and _finally_ lands on a slide that doesn’t have the word _codependency_ somewhere in the title. “Addiction and the addictive personality.”

“Skip that too,” Grantaire says, but Enjolras just stands there, giving Grantaire a very doubtful look. “What? Do you really think I don’t know this about myself?”

“I think you might misunderstand where I’m going with this slide,” Enjolras says carefully. For a moment he looks extremely uncomfortable, and then clicks forward. “Relationship addiction.”

“Skip-”

“This is me,” Enjolras says.

It takes Grantaire a moment, but he says, “Oh.”

“Relationship addiction more or less means I expect you to fix me,” Enjolras says simply, which is kind of fucked up, and Grantaire takes another drink. “I depend on you for my mental, emotional, moral, physical – my _everything_ health. And safety. I’ve told you this before, although not in this particular context. If you weren’t perfectly content with following, I would be. Well. I ended up stalking you when you left of your own free will, and I had a complete breakdown and chased you down and – I _need_ you, and it is unhealthy, and that’s what this slide is about. Moving on.”

“Wait, pause,” Grantaire says. “When did this start? How old is this?”

“I’m not sure,” Enjolras says. “On one hand, I’d already developed some of the major symptoms within the first twenty-four hours of knowing you-”

“ _Really_ ,” Grantaire says, fascinated. And a little bit flattered.

“That isn’t a good thing, Grantaire,” Enjolras says. “I was about to die when we met, and you stopped it, and you weren’t horrified by me, you just accepted everything, and it was a very dark and lonely time in my life that you made better. And I relied on that too much. That reliance became addiction, and here we are.”

“Huh,” Grantaire says, because this is a hell of a thing to think about, and takes another drink. “So what do we do about it?”

“That’s section three, we’ll get to that later,” Enjolras says, and clicks forward. It’s yet another _Relationship Addiction_ slide, because Enjolras has very obviously completely abandoned the planned presentation idea. 

The next slide says _Trauma Bonding_.

Enjolras gives Grantaire an expectant look, so Grantaire says, “I have no idea what that is, but I’m guessing it’s bonding during trauma.”

“Partially,” Enjolras says. And then he’s very quiet, so Grantaire finally actually reads the slide’s big ugly wall of text.

_“Abandonment and trauma are at the core of addictions. Abandonment causes deep shame. Abandonment by betrayal is worse than mindless neglect. Betrayal is purposeful and self-serving.”_

_“Exploitive relationships create trauma bonds. These occur when a victim bonds with someone who is destructive to them. Similarly, adult survivors of abusive and dysfunctional families struggle with bonds that are rooted in their own trauma experiences. To be loyal to that which does not work – or worse, to a person who is toxic, exploitive, or destructive to the client, is [bad].”_

Grantaire has to take a moment to process it.

“Okay, this one’s a load of bullshit,” Grantaire says.

“Think for a moment,” Enjolras says quietly.

“I don’t need to think for a moment, Enjolras, this shit has nothing to do with us,” Grantaire says, and points at the screen. “This makes it sound like – I’m assuming this is supposed to be you who is ‘toxic, exploitive, or destructive’, because you’re fucked up enough to think you’re abusive if I even _hint_ I’m unhappy with something.”

“There’s a reason for that,” Enjolras says.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, don’t fucking start this. I made a joke about you _hugging me_ without asking and you freaked out for a week! You’re so far from demanding that I’m pretty sure if I didn’t even touch you for six months you wouldn’t say a damn thing. You wouldn’t even _pout_. This is the stupidest shit you’ve ever said about yourself, and that is saying something, Enjolras, it really, really is,” Grantaire says.

“We aren’t talking about any sort of physical or sexual abuse. We’re talking about the very long pattern of me fucking up, and you forgiving me,” Enjolras says.

“That’s completely different,” Grantaire says, shaking his head. “That’s just that you’re still learning how to have morals and don’t know better sometimes. And we work it out, and things are okay again. It’s not _abusive_ to get in a shouting match with your husband!”

“Ignore the word abusive and just _listen_ for a moment,” Enjolras says. “It’s the _pattern_ , Grantaire. I hurt you. I do something hurtful. You get upset, and then we fight, or you leave, or you just _shut down_ – which is fucking _terrifying_ , by the way. And then I say I’ll do better, and you come back, and you forgive me, even though we both know it’s going to happen again. Even worse, we both know the only thing I’m sorry about is that I hurt you. _Just_ you. And you _still_ come back and forgive me.”

“That’s not abuse!” Grantaire shouts.

“Why?” Enjolras asks.

“Because you don’t mean it,” Grantaire says. “You don’t – you’re not willfully malicious or whatever you want to call it. You don’t do this intentionally. It’s not a plan, it’s not anything beyond you being your fucked up self. It's not even about _me_ , or us or whatever. It’s just how you are.”

“You’re right, it’s entirely unintentional,” Enjolras says. “But intentions don’t excuse anything.”

“Yes they do,” Grantaire says.

“You don’t want to go down this particular road to prove your point, Grantaire,” Enjolras says. “I’ve done very bad things with the purest of intentions.”

“But you wouldn’t do _this_ ,” Grantaire says.

“Why?” Enjolras asks. “I would never hurt you because I love you? Yes, I love you, but I have hurt you. That’s a fact. You can’t deny that. I have hurt you again, and again, and _again_ , and it needs to stop. This needs to stop.”

“I swear to god I’m going to walk out if you keep saying this,” Grantaire says.

“Then _go_ , because we _are_ talking about this,” Enjolras snaps. “Are you even listening to yourself right now? He didn’t mean it, he loves me, he’s going to stop doing it, he’s getting better. What does that sound like to you, Grantaire?”

Something dark and cold enough to burn rushes through Grantaire. He stands slowly, eyes fixed on Enjolras so sharply it actually makes Enjolras blink out of his righteous preaching mode. “I must not have heard that last little speech of yours, because if I _had_ , I might be tempted to walk over there and punch you in the face,” he says. For a moment, he thinks very clearly about how he could pursue telling Enjolras how horrifically fucked up that was – and it’s even _worse_ if he would _actually_ say that to someone he thinks is in an abusive relationship – but settles on letting that go. For now.

“Maybe we should take another break,” Courfeyrac says quickly, and people start moving.

“Everyone out,” Grantaire says, still not looking away from Enjolras, who is just staring back with wide stunned eyes.

“Grantaire, we’re here to support you,” Cosette says.

“And I appreciate that, but I need to have a private conversation with Enjolras. It will be very fast. Please leave,” Grantaire says. When they don’t move, he adds a very dark and unexpectedly authoritative, “ _Now._ ”

“I think we should all leave,” Combeferre says very carefully, and after another second of inactivity he adds, “I'd rather avoid him throwing knives again.” Apparently that works since Grantaire can hear the shuffling and murmurs as they all walk out of the ABC room’s back door.

The minute it shuts, Enjolras says, “Grantaire, I know you don’t want to hear this, I _know_ , but-”

“I am going to say this once, and only once,” Grantaire says, voice tight and rough because he is fighting to keep from screaming in Enjolras’ face. “There will be no discussion of this, there will be no questions, and you will fucking _listen_ , is that clear?”

“It is,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire takes a moment to finish off the glass of wine in a single swallow, and then he’s right back to keeping his eyes fixed on Enjolras. “You are not abusive. You’re fucked up, and you’re not exactly a good person, but you are not a _bad_ person, and above all else, you are not abusive. I know this because I’m personally familiar with abusive relationships, I grew up seeing it, and it is very upsetting to have you saying this shit for many, many reasons. _Stop it._ You are wrong. Accept that. We are moving on from this topic.”

Enjolras looks like he’s in physical pain, mouth opening and then closing, expression turning desperate as he says, “You-”

“No discussion. No questions. _Moving on_ ,” Grantaire repeats, and sits down again, pulling a cigarette out of his arc of goodies and lighting it with the out and ready lighter right next to it. But Enjolras is _still_ staring at him, so Grantaire rolls his eyes. “ _You are wrong_. For fuck’s sake, Enjolras, this is the equivalent of convincing yourself you have cancer after looking up flu symptoms online.”

It doesn’t help much, but at least Enjolras follows Grantaire’s instructions and doesn’t say a damn thing. He sits down next to the laptop and projector, and waits, silently glancing over again and again at Grantaire as he works his way through his cigarette. Eventually, he seems to get tired of his failure of a massive expectant opening that there's no fucking way Grantaire's interested in taking, and heads to the back door to usher their support team back in.

The minute Courfeyrac walks into the room, Grantaire points at him and verbally realizes, “This is why you asked if he hit me, isn’t it.”

“ _What?_ ” Enjolras says. It’s almost a yelp. He turns towards Courfeyrac, whose hands shoot up into the air in surrender, eyes wide. “You – that can’t be true. You can’t possibly think I’d do that.”

“You were showing us slide after slide about abusive relationships, Enjolras,” Combeferre says, unimpressed, and grabs Courfeyrac by the back of his shirt’s collar, tugging him back towards their chairs. “No harm was done, and you would’ve acted the same if our positions were switched.”

Enjolras does not look happy about this. Still, he sighs, and nods, and makes his way back to the projector. He starts clicking his way through slide after slide of abusive relationship bullshit, and then stops, turning around slowly to say, “Cosette?”

“Right,” Cosette says, and in no time at all she’s sitting on Grantaire’s right, smiling encouragingly.

“Oh god, what’s about to happen,” Grantaire says. “You fucking hate each other, your cooperation is terrifying.”

“I don’t _hate_ him,” Cosette says. When Grantaire just raises his eyebrows and gives her a very dubious look, she clears her throat, just the slightest bit awkward. Which, for Cosette, means she feels _very_ awkward. “I don’t! I just…strongly disapprove of him. A lot. But we both love you, so our cooperation shouldn’t be scary, it should be reassuring.”

When Grantaire turns to looks at Enjolras, he doesn’t say anything until Grantaire crosses his arms, leaning forward on the table expectantly. So, Enjolras carefully says, “I love you, so I don’t think I should talk about this. I will say the important thing is we both care about you.” He pauses. “I care more, though. Obviously.”

“Okay, let’s just move on,” Grantaire says before the conversation tumbles down into Enjolras and Cosette trying to very politely rip each other’s heads off. His two favorite blondes nearly tore down Wedding #4 minutes before the ceremony when Cosette had simply said _Are you sure about this?_ and really, he’d rather avoid dealing with that again.

When he sees the next slide, Grantaire can definitely see why they’re cooperating.

“It’s not intentional, I know it’s not intentional, you’re not at fault for this,” Enjolras says, words lightning fast. “It’s just uncomfortable but necessary examination of our relationship and please don’t blame yourself for this, I don’t blame you, _nobody_ blames you-”

“Please be quiet for a moment,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras shuts up.

The slide is titled _UNINTENTIONAL Manipulative Behavior That Is Not Your Fault AT ALL_.

_UNINTENTIONAL threat of suicide after break-up_

_Basically if I fuck up you get much worse and that is UNINTENTIONALLY manipulative._

Every single time the word ‘unintentional’ shows up, it’s about ten times bigger in font size than the rest of the text. The slide is swimming in bright blue _UNINTENTIONAL_ s, but it doesn’t make the content any gentler.

He pours himself another glass of wine. “What did the second line originally say?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Enjolras says. “This is the final version of the slide, and it says all that needs to be said.”

Grantaire just accepts his answer with a nod, and drinks, and wishes it wasn’t _good_ wine. He wants it to make his gums hurt and burn down his throat – he wants cheap shitty scotch, he wants a bottle just labeled _Wine_ , whiskey measured with how many Xs are on the jug. He wants something he could smash on the floor without feeling guilty.

Even if Enjolras suddenly despised him, even if Enjolras couldn’t even bear to be in the same room, winced and grimaced at every touch, he still wouldn’t leave Grantaire, because Grantaire would probably kill himself.

Pity will forever tie them together.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Grantaire says. He puts a hand over his eyes, like it’ll somehow make this go away, and barely manages to say, “I can.” It’s a croaking noise, and Grantaire swallows, trying to breathe and speak. “I’ll work on it.”

“That’s not the point of this,” Enjolras says. “That’s not – you don’t have to, Grantaire. You don’t. It’s just something I need to tell you because it scares me, all of this scares me, but this isn’t me blaming you. You’ve done nothing wrong. This is just _facts_ , not judgments, it’s just. Oh god. Please don’t cry.”

Their relationship is an ugly endless circle of Grantaire being pathetic and Enjolras being principled. Grantaire has him trapped in a fucking hostage situation, and he doesn’t know if he can change like Enjolras does. He doesn’t know how to fix himself. He doesn't know how to fix this. Oh fuck, he doesn’t know if it _can_ be fixed.

But this isn't just Grantaire. It's _Enjolras_.

Enjolras is Enjolras, and that means he has a plan. Four steps ahead, seven plans at the ready, an endless list of worst case scenarios lined up in his brain – Enjolras can take care of this. Grantaire may have him trapped, but Enjolras can figure out how to escape.

And, Grantaire remembers, he already has.

“I want section three,” Grantaire whispers, and it’s barely audible, just a desperate rasp of strained vocal cords. He couldn’t look at Enjolras even if he wanted to, and Enjolras is right, he’s fucking _crying_ , silent tears sneaking out from beneath his hand, and he didn't even notice. “I don’t care what else you have, I want the fixing it part. Get to the fixing it part.”

“Maybe we should take a break,” Courfeyrac says.

“No, we should _not_ take a break,” Grantaire says, and wipes his hand over his eyes, and he refuses to be this fucking pathetic, this pitiable and _useless_ and trapping Enjolras with his own miserable indifference to his own existence. The world is wet and blurry when he finally looks out at the room again, and god, he’d forgotten he even has a cigarette in his other hand, half ashes still holding their shape as it burns down, unnoticed and unused. “We aren't taking a break. We are telling me how to fix this instead.”

Enjolras hesitates. “There’s just two more-”

“I don’t fucking care, you’re going to section three or I’m going to come over there and take that _fucking_ controller thing from you and do it myself,” Grantaire snaps.

“Fine,” Enjolras says, and moves past the remaining two slides, stopping on the final title screen.

_Section 3 of 3: How to Fix This And be Better and Healthy in an Equal Happy Loving Mutually Comfortable Relationship_

“This is a very simple, straightforward plan,” Enjolras says. “It is _not_ easy. I’ve been trying to stick to this plan for the past two days and failed completely, and possibly even gotten _worse_. We are both going to have to be very strong and dedicated to the idea of a healthy relationship for this to work.”

Grantaire nods. “So we’re trying to get sober, basically,” he says.

Enjolras pauses. “That’s actually a good way to look at it,” he says, like he’s surprised and never thought of it, despite how many times the word _addiction_ has popped up in his special little PowerPoint.

“And you leaving me was step one,” Grantaire says.

“I wouldn’t say _step_ so much as trying to follow one of the three guiding concepts of this plan,” Enjolras says. “But it is the first one, yes.”

He clicks forward.

_Separation:_

_We put a reasonable distance between each other and create individual lives which will intersect in a healthy responsible equally independent but loving relationship._

Grantaire hates having to shoot him down when he’s giving the big solution to their problems, but it has to be done. “I don’t think that’s going to work out very well, what with the whole you running around killing people thing,” he says.

“Which is why we’re going to take a break,” Enjolras says firmly. Grantaire gapes at him, because holy shit, this is so, so wrong. This is Enjolras prioritizing playing house over the shit he’s obsessed with and pretty much defines his entire existence. Enjolras waves a hand through the air, dismissing the topic as almost inconsequential. “Think of it like we both have a really bad case of flu. This is sick leave. For now, we’re down to home base work while we take care of this.”

And _that_ perspective makes a lot more sense, so Grantaire relaxes slightly. Enjolras is still himself, he’s just seeing himself as someone who needs to take care of their own health before running off to murder people again.

“The principle of separation is fairly straightforward – although it’s by far the most difficult,” Enjolras says. “We’re going to have to figure out some things, logistically, but that can be done at a later time. Any questions or commentary about separation?”

Grantaire just waves him forward, although when he sees the next slide he ends up saying, “What the fuck.”

_Seeking Help:_

_We both go to counselors or therapists or psychiatrists for both single and couple counseling because they are experts and actually know what they are doing and we need to get this right._

“Let’s not do this one,” Grantaire says.

“Not an option. You said it yourself earlier – I don’t have a degree in this, I don’t have any professional credentials, I just did a lot of research and put things together. We need to talk to people who _do_ have those certifications,” Enjolras says simply, and points at the binder. “Pages seven through sixteen are likely candidates for you, pages one through six are candidates for couples therapy, there's a full page biography on every single one of them and their preferred methods and styles. I’ve had Combeferre _and_ Courfeyrac look over them, as well as my own preliminary screening. If you're open to working with them, they _will_ help.”

“Can’t we just go back in the bathtub?” Grantaire asks.

“Regrettably, no,” Enjolras says. “We need to get better, and this is how we do it. I know it’s extremely uncomfortable, but we have to. It’s crucial to getting better. I have my first appointment tomorrow morning at ten in the morning tomorrow, and every single person in that binder has an appointment scheduled with you at ten tomorrow, too. That way we can talk afterwards and say what works and doesn’t and generally share our impressions and experiences in a healthy supportive way - unless you want to keep it private, which is also okay. I don’t have to know everything. That’s part of the point of this.”

“Sometimes you’re so thorough it’s creepy,” Grantaire says.

“I would much rather be creepy and thorough than not creepy and just half-ass this,” Enjolras says. “It’s _important_ , Grantaire. Promise me you’ll go to one of them. If you tell me who you choose ahead of time, I can cancel the rest of the appointments.”

“I’ll go to whoever you’re going to,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras shakes his head. “We need to see different people. We have very different needs, too. This is better.”

Grantaire sighs, but nods. “Okay, I promise I’ll go see one of them. I’ll go through it tonight.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras says, so relieved his shoulders visibly fall and relax, tension Grantaire hadn’t even noticed leaking out of him with a single exhalation. “Thank you, Grantaire. I mean that, with all sincerity. This _will_ help us.”

“Well, that _is_ their job,” Grantaire says dryly, and takes a moment to rub his temples, squeeze his eyes shut, and steel himself for the next big pillar of recovery. “And what is our third and final principle?”

Enjolras almost looks eager. _Excited_ , even. It’s the expression a five year old gets when they spot an ice cream parlor with a gullible adult by their side.

He clicks forward.

Grantaire groans, and drops his head to the table. “Oh for fuck’s sake, Enjolras,” he mutters.

“This is _important_ , Grantaire! We can get things right! We can have a nice, reasonable, healthy relationship,” Enjolras says. “We take things slow, and-”

“I am not marrying you again, Enjolras,” Grantaire says.

“No, but that’s the point!” Enjolras says, like he’s opening Grantaire’s eyes to the true wonders of the world. “We wouldn’t get married again for at _least_ a year. It’s normal to wait for – how long do people wait, Courfeyrac?”

“See, that’s the thing,” Courfeyrac says. “Some people get drunk and go get married immediately, some people live together for twelve years and then just sign the papers, some people are afraid of commitment and just sit around waiting and panicking for two or four years. There’s no real set time for this. It varies from relationship to relationship. Most people just wait until they’re sure about things and it feels right, no matter how long or brief a time that is.”

There’s a pause, and then Enjolras says, “Then Grantaire is in charge of determining that.”

“Maybe don’t skip to the proposal bit, huh?” Montparnasse says from the corner, and Grantaire looks up to see him wearing his _you’re all idiots_ expression. He points to the screen. “Says starting over. _Starting_ over, not proposing over. Take the time to _start_.”

Specifically, the slide says:

_STARTING OVER:_

_Our relationship has been extremely unconventional since we met and trying to do this like average healthy people would result in a healthy equal independent but connected relationship. We start over again, with dating, and move slowly and sensibly forward._

“We’ve been married for four years, Enjolras,” Grantaire states.

“Five years,” Enjolras says.

“ _Four_ years,” Grantaire says. “Dating you is just-”

“Have we ever been on a date?” Enjolras asks.

It takes a minute, but Grantaire grudgingly admits, “Well, no, but that’s not the point. You go on a date to get to know the other person.”

“There are so many things I don’t know about you,” Enjolras says. “And that’s part of the problem. There are stages of normal relationship development that we skipped, or did in the wrong order, or just did _wrong_. Developing trust is one of those.”

Grantaire frowns. “I trust you with my life. And I mean _literally_.”

“Yes, you trust me with your _life_ , but not with.” Enjolras cuts himself off, clearly deciding whether or not to go down whatever road he’s stepped towards. When he does decide to take that chance, Enjolras _charges_ down it. “You talked about your parents today. You have done that exactly one time before. _Once._ You don’t talk about your life before we met. You don’t talk about your childhood. You don’t talk about _anything_ that happened before me. Even when you’re with your sister, there’s no reminiscing, no talk of anything that’s deeper than ancient in-jokes and harmless childhood stories that always cut off _right_ after the event, never touching consequences or reactions. I know _you_ , but I don’t know where you came from, or what your life was really like before I showed up, or – or _anything_.”

“What, you want me to write you an autobiography?” Grantaire asks.

Enjolras makes a frustrated noise, and shakes his head, saying, “No, that’s not what I mean. I don’t want you to just sit down and tell me about what you were like when you were twelve. I want you to be willing to share, or open to sharing, or just willing to tell me _something_. You trust me with your life, yes. You trust me with so many things so completely that it _terrifies_ me sometimes, but not with this, and I want-”

“Everything,” Grantaire says. When Enjolras gives him a confused frown, he stands up and finally taps the ashes off of his long-dead cigarette. “You want _everything_ , Enjolras. You always have. You want every cell in my body, every emotion I feel, every single thought in my head. And for years, I have been thrilled to give it to you. But _this?_ You don’t get to demand this from me.”

“That’s the point of this, Grantaire,” Enjolras says. “I know I want everything, but I’m not demanding this. This isn’t me shouting _I want to know_ at you and then waiting.”

“Then what is it?” Grantaire asks, barely restraining himself from shouting.

Enjolras looks exhausted, and something else, something soft and lingering. There’s a strangely gentle shine of possessiveness in Enjolras’ eyes, any and all frustration just _gone_ as he says, “It’s me waiting for the day you want to tell me.”

Grantaire can do nothing but stare at him, frozen from some unnameable jolt of heat and just wanting to _touch him_.

“Don’t be gentle,” Grantaire blurts out. “Oh god, I can’t fucking deal with you when you’re like this, I don’t – I need to leave.” He picks up the wine bottle, grabs the binder, and quickly starts to shuffle his way out from his designated sitting area.

“Date me,” Enjolras says.

“ _No_ ,” Grantaire says, picking his way out from the table.

“ _Please_ date me,” Enjolras says. “You said yes before. You said yes to dinner before, I can take a raincheck-”

“Four years is a long fucking raincheck, Enjolras,” Grantaire snaps.

“There are places in the world that go fifty years without rain, four years is nothing, it’s still perfectly valid,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “That is _nowhere near_ what a raincheck is, it’s not based on the concept of the _next_ time it rains, it’s -”

“I’ll take you to dinner tomorrow. We’ll have dinner. We do that all the time, we eat almost every meal together, so why would you say no?” Enjolras says. “There’s no reason for that. It’s nothing we haven’t done before, we’ve been married for five years-”

“ _Four_.”

“One date,” Enjolras says. “Just one date, and if you still think it’s pointless and ridiculous we can figure something else out. It’s just _dinner_ , think of it as an experiment, it’s harmless, it’s just food, you like food sometimes, I’ll pick food you like-”

“ _Fine_ , yes, you can take your stupid fucking raincheck,” Grantaire says. “One trial run date. _One_.”

Enjolras looks so excited it hurts to look at him, close to bouncing and grinning and looking at Grantaire with that horrible blend of sappy affection and unholy glee and Grantaire has no idea how he can forget what an _idiot_ Enjolras is sometimes.

It should not be squishy and endearing to be reminded that your husband is such a fucking loser.

Grantaire says, “Oh god, I’m going to relapse so fucking hard.”

“Right! That reminds me,” Enjolras says, and pulls out his keys, quickly sliding his apartment key off the ring. “So last night doesn’t happen again.”

“There’s no way in hell that’s going to be enough to keep us separated. If we can get to each other, it’s happening. I am nowhere near stupid enough to think I can do this nice and easy. Or to think I'd lock the door,” Grantaire says, and turns to look at Cosette hopefully - but no, that would not work. At all. She has a baby and parents and a husband and there is definitely no room for him. Enjolras is probably going to stay with Courfeyrac or Combeferre again, so that leaves one option.

Grimly, he turns to look at the last person left in the room.

“I am here to be supportive, so I will lend support,” Montparnasse says, resigned, looking at Grantaire instead of Enjolras for once as he stands. “You can stay with me. Enjolras won’t be able to pop in, he doesn’t know where I live.”

“Yes I do,” Enjolras says.

“Not _all_ the places I live,” Montparnasse says. “Nobody does. Well, smart one probably has it, but me and him have an understanding, so I trust you won’t get addresses.” He points at Grantaire. “We’re done and leaving now. You good?”

Grantaire frowns. “I think so? Honestly, I’m not sure what you’re asking me.”

“That means you’re good,” Montparnasse says, walks towards Grantaire, and has him pushed out the unofficially private door before he can even say goodbye to anyone.

He then finds himself on the street, standing next to a truly hideous gold-painted Ferrari.

“Get in,” Montparnasse says.

“I really hate you,” Grantaire says, sighs, and does.


	7. Le Cachette - Psychiatre - Gallery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT: 
> 
> Gnomon is getting yanked off of AO3 ~~some time in early December~~ ONE WEEK AFTER I FINISH NOCTURLABE. I sold it (because I need moneyyyyy) and it's going to be coming out on September 1st, 2015. For more news re: publication stuff, [here's](http://luchia13.tumblr.com/post/99487695207/ive-been-sitting-here-trying-to-figure-out-how-to) [some](http://gnomonfic.tumblr.com/post/100059925722/kind-of-late-but-congratulations-on-getting-a-book) [information](http://gnomonfic.tumblr.com/post/100261263023/so-excited-for-the-book-deal-o-i-look-forward) on tumblr regarding book-Gnomon stuff.
> 
> There will be a 48 hour notice put up on Gnomon before deletion. The notification will be posted as a new chapter, and then the current version is gone forever because Gnomon will be AWESOME when it is (re?)released and fully edited and fixed up. So, if you want to keep the current version, you should download it using AO3's incredibly convenient little download button at the upper right over there.
> 
> All other Stupid Terrorist Boys content will remain up, although it might get AO3-locked when it gets closer to publication date.

The apartment Montparnasse takes him to isn’t what he expected. At all.

Grantaire has been to two of his other apartments, and they were all in fashionable or exciting neighborhoods, in a nice enough but fairly unmentionable building. They all seemed perfectly suited to a person like Montparnasse.

This one is in a shitty part of town, on a street with more store fronts in Korean than Grantaire saw in some areas of _Seoul_. It's a row of broken windows and filthy sidewalks. Montparnasse’s absurd car driving on this street seems impossible.

And yet, one older woman walking down the street sees the car, and smiles, and waves at Montparnasse.

Montparnasse honest to god _waves back_.

When Montparnasse notices Grantaire is staring at him, he just says, “My landlady.”

“Are you taking me to your safe house?” Grantaire asks, completely shocked (and horrified) by the level of trust that would imply.

But Montparnasse looks over at him, completely scandalized, so they're good. “What, you think I’m an _idiot_? Fuck no,” he says, and turns sharply into an already open garage, screeching to a stop. After a moment, he does say, “Still don’t people about this, though.”

“I wasn’t planning to,” Grantaire says, which is good enough for Montparnasse since he turns the car off and closes the garage door behind them. Still, there’s none of the overblown dazzle he’s come to associate with Montparnasse. He just leads Grantaire through a door and into a small hall, with one door on the left and stairs to the right.

“Mrs. Song has the first floor,” Montparnasse says, and heads up the stairs. One flight and they’re already on the top floor, and Grantaire has to mentally hold himself back from reaching for the door first. Montparnasse unlocks it smoothly, but then stands in front of the door, still, his hand clenched around the doorknob.

“I solemnly swear I’m not going to give away your secret tenth apartment,” Grantaire says.

“Problem lies in how it’s the _first_ apartment,” Montparnasse says, and turns to look at Grantaire. Grantaire simply looks right back, and apparently that’s all Montparnasse needs. He turns the handle and opens the door, holding it for Grantaire. “Just follow the rules, and we’ll be good. Number one, shoes off at the door.”

It’s more than fair, so Grantaire nods and walks inside.

Every single thing Montparnasse has ever been associated with is cutting-edge, from fashion to killing. Neither of his other apartments had looked even a little bit interested in conforming with your regular usage of space; bedrooms tend to be used as closets, and main rooms are usually bedrooms. Everything is deliberately expensive and unconventional.

Grantaire walks into a narrow hallway with coat hooks on the right, and on the left there’s a framed piece of embroidery that reads _God bless this mess._ There is a welcome mat. The floor is off-white carpet. At the end of the hall, Grantaire is pretty sure he can make out what looks like a comfortable fluffy couch with soft floral-print fabric.

He takes his shoes off and very, very carefully sets them near the wall, because he can tell there’s something going on here. Namely, he’s pretty sure that this isn’t _Montparnasse’s_ apartment. Does he actually have a family? Is his grandmother about to round the corner and squeal at seeing her sweet baby grandson again? Grantaire stands there waiting awkwardly as Montparnasse unzips his boots and sets them directly beneath the coat hooks.

“Let’s just get this over with,” Montparnasse says, and turns to lead Grantaire just a few steps down the hall and turn left to stand in a kitchen. It’s nice, but _weird_. The table has the weirdest mismatched combination of chairs he’s ever seen, ranging from a shiny black armchair to a bland old wooden chair that Grantaire would expect Montparnasse to throw out the window in disgust if given the chance.

But the strangest thing in the room by far is the wall completely covered in masks, all of them with strange cracks of gold or silver running through them.

Montparnasse obviously catches him staring (and appreciating, since some of them really are beautiful), and says, “Those are my payment for killing you.”

“What are they?” Grantaire asks, fascinated, and steps closer to look at one. It’s pitch black ceramic, one of the few masks that would cover the entire face. The streaks of gold make it truly beautiful. There’s a severity to the mask, somehow. He’s never been one for photography, but having a collection of pictures of these masks would be wonderful. Particularly since he’s pretty fucking sure he’s never getting back in here again.

It takes Montparnasse a moment to reply, but he says, “My dead boyfriend.”

Grantaire freezes.

“God, _relax_. He’s been dead a long fucking time now,” Montparnasse says, opening cupboards full of a haphazard array of dishes and cups, no two alike. “Want tea?”

“Tea?” Grantaire echoes, turning to frown at the back of Montparnasse’s perfectly coiffed head. “I never took you for a tea drinker.”

Montparnasse lets out a long sigh. “Okay, I’m just gonna shove the bottom line in your face before you start making assumptions,” he says, and pulls a battered kettle out of the cupboard, filling it with water from the faucet. “This isn’t my apartment. It’s my crew’s apartment. And yeah, they’re dead, but I still end up doing the same old shit as before. So, I drink tea when I’m here. I make nice with the landlady. It’s still got the same disgusting furniture as the last time we all walked out together, every one of us nice and breathing. It’s fucked up, but it’s how I deal, tried and true. Questions?”

Grantaire looks around the kitchen again, noting again how there are four very different chairs. There’s the plain one, and the ridiculous armchair, but also a padded chair that’s just slightly too fancy, and a wide, simple yet stylish wooden chair with a shiny wooden varnish. None of them have a single fleck of dust on them.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Grantaire asks awkwardly, but means it.

“Fuck no,” Montparnasse says, and pulls two mugs out of a cupboard – one of which has _Monty_ pasted onto it in cheap rhinestones, enough chipped off to make it look more like _iVcnty_. “I’m drinking blackberry tangerine, but I’m guessing you’re, what, oolong or some shit?”

This is quite possibly the most fucked up Montparnasse-related thing Grantaire has ever experienced.

“Works for me,” Grantaire says, and tries to remember how to be a good guest. This is not a situation where it seems acceptable to be an asshole. This is very obviously Montparnasse’s sanctum sanctorum, and that is not something you fuck with. It’d be like someone walking up to Enjolras and setting their many, many marriage licenses on fire right in front of him. So yes, Grantaire is going to drink oolong tea.

The entire brewing process doesn’t take enough time for the situation to get even more awkward, but it does take long enough that Grantaire is drawn back to the dead boyfriend masks. He figures compliments are always welcome, so he says, “These really are amazing. Was he an artist?”

“Don’t think so, but who knows, could’ve been a hobby,” Montparnasse says, and starts pulling things out of cabinets again. “Never really bothered to ask where he got them; he wasn’t so big on sharing. Are you a sugar person? You seem like a sugar person.” He doesn’t give Grantaire time to answer, just puts the mug and a sugar bowl on the table.

Then, Montparnasse pulls a little bear-shaped honey jar out of the cabinet. Montparnasse pours so much honey into his tea that he has trouble stirring it all in to the burning hot liquid. Or what used to be liquid, at least.

When he notices Grantaire is just staring at him (and his disgusting tea), Montparnasse frowns. And then he obviously makes some big decision, because he nods to himself and walks out of the kitchen saying, “Come along.”

Grantaire drops a sugar cube into his tea and follows cautiously. He’s pretty sure Montparnasse would murder him if he dropped tea on the carpet. But, he rounds the corner, and finds himself in a living room. The plush floral couch is the only barrier between it and the three doors on the other side of the hall, and it takes Grantaire a minute to really realize what he’s looking at.

There are two matching couches set up in an everyday kind of position, with a massive TV in the corner, and then there’s a truly titanic arcade game shoved into the corner. It takes up at least a fourth of the room, with two player stations, and it’s a fucking _Terminator_ themed game if the massive T-800 models on either side are to be believed. The power is off, but Grantaire still ends up standing there, staring at the thing.

“Ah, yes,” Montparnasse says smugly, slouching his way into a burgundy armchair. “The training simulator.”

Grantaire has a lot of questions. A _lot_ of questions. And yet, the first thing he asks is, “How did you even get that in here?”

“Mrs. Song loves me is how,” Montparnasse says, and somehow he can actually drink his tea already. It’s probably the honey. It’s also probably sludge. He grins. “Want to play?”

“You know what, yes I do,” Grantaire decides, and Montparnasse jumps up and plugs the machine in. It wakes up with a terrifying roar, and explosions blast across the massive screen, and Grantaire tries very hard not to gape because this thing is so ridiculous that the robo-Schwarzenegger models have ominous glowing red eyes that grow brighter and brighter as the machine starts lighting up. Bullshit about Skynet and how they are humanity’s last hope against the machines starts scrolling across the screen.

“You’re going to be shit at this, just brace for that,” Montparnasse warns him, and points to the left player station. “Okay, you’ve got your cyber rifle to your left over there-”

“Of course I do,” Grantaire says, rolling his eyes, and puts his tea down on a nearby table, grabbing the ridiculous plastic rifle. It has tubes on it. And flashing lights. It is by far the stupidest looking thing Grantaire has seen in a long time.

“And your plasma pistol's to the right, you’ve gotta switch for some shit,” Montparnasse says, and oh for the love of god Montparnasse just _chugs_ his disgusting tea sludge. Grantaire can see why his mug’s rhinestones are so banged up, because he just fucking drops it on the floor and kicks it towards the wall. “Plasma pistol’s really best for getting rid of the ones with people suits-”

“Why do you even have this thing?” Grantaire asks, almost shouting over the roaring explosives and ominous robotic Terminator laughter.

“First, because it’s fucking _awesome_ , what is wrong with you,” Montparnasse says, and grabs his own _cyber rifle_. His is an identical yellow version of Grantaire’s blue tubey monstrosity. He doesn’t even look at the screen when he shoots the _START_ button. “Second, like I said. Training.”

“For what, the robot apocalypse?” Grantaire asks, baffled.

But Montparnasse fucking _winks_ at him and says, “Flinching.”

Which makes absolutely no sense, until the game actually starts up and Grantaire nearly jumps out of his fucking skin and grabs a knife because apparently the models on the end of the screen are _part of the game_. The robot lashes towards him, and Grantaire dodges with a gasp, pushing himself backwards and nearly falling right on to his tea.

Montparnasse nearly falls over he’s laughing so fucking hard.

Grantaire glares at him, breath coming embarrassingly quickly. “Oh fuck you, holy shit, fuck _this_.”

“Oh my god, your _face_ ,” Montparnasse finally manages to say. “Poor _baby_ , it’s so super scary-”

“Just start the machine again,” Grantaire commands, and spends the next four hours shouting at Montparnasse and shooting Terminator robots.

At some point, Mrs. Song must break in, because when they finally stop there’s a plate of éclairs sitting on Montparnasse’s kitchen table, with a note _Welcome home! Breakfast at 8:30?_

It’s not exactly a healthy dinner, but Grantaire still has the painfully good wine Enjolras provided, so he fetches it from Montparnasse's atrocious car and figures that’s a helping of fruit to go along with the meal, making it nice and respectable. The fact Montparnasse dips his éclairs in an already-waiting cup of maple syrup is not something Grantaire is even willing to acknowledge.

Grantaire’s phone rings just a few minutes before midnight, and they’ve somehow migrated onto the couch with a bowl of popcorn watching what Montparnasse had claimed is one of the most fucked up cartoons ever made, and Grantaire’s kind of starting to agree. It’s the story of a teeny tiny happy little lamb whose mom gets eaten by a wolf and then that lamb decides it want to be a wolf and goes to train with the wolf that ate his mom and it’s just really messed up. And kind of existential.

Anyway, his phone rings and Grantaire almost forgets to answer it because he doesn’t recognize the ringtone. Montparnasse punches him in the shoulder, though, so Grantaire picks up and says, “Hello?”

“This is a supervised call and you are on speaker phone with Combeferre and Courfeyrac as well. Are you okay? You just kind of…left,” Enjolras says.

“Yeah, I’m fine, don’t worry. Are you?” Grantaire asks.

“Yes,” Enjolras says, in that stone-hard tone where the answer is actually _no_. “But I called to see if you’re okay and if you decided who to see tomorrow for your appointment at ten in the morning, and possibly decide on someone for couple’s therapy as well.”

“Oh. Right. That,” Grantaire says, and winces, because the green binder is still probably sitting in Montparnasse’s offensively gold car and Grantaire doesn't want to go back down _again_. He's already slightly tipsy and weirdly comfortable on the couch. Still, Grantaire can do this without the binder in hand. Enjolras made it, and from what little Grantaire can remember the options weren’t listed alphabetically, which makes this a fairly obvious answer. “I’ll go to the first person.”

There’s a long pause, which is either the sound of Enjolras being dumbfounded or a frantic hand motion conversation with Combeferre and Courfeyrac. Eventually, he says, “Really?”

“Sure,” Grantaire says, and shrugs. “It’s obviously the person you think is the best choice, since they’re the first one in the book. You _know_ I’m going to be completely disinterested in making this decision, so that means I’d be most likely to either pick the first one or just flip to a random page. Your odds are best to hope I’d go with the first, since there’s always the slim chance they could be the person I randomly flip to as well. I might as well go with your recommendation, considering how much thought and effort you put into this.”

“You’re really good at this,” Courfeyrac says.

“I try,” Grantaire says.

“You didn’t even read it, did you,” Enjolras says, somehow managing to sound both frustrated and incredibly fond of him.

“What can I say, I just trust you to be obsessively overprotective by now,” Grantaire says. “Plus, I’m tired and lazy and it’s still in that _stupid_ car.”

Montparnasse frowns and says, “ _Hey_ now, you tasteless son of a bitch.”

Grantaire ignores him.

Again, there’s an extended silence on the other end. Eventually, Combeferre says, “Please hold, there’s a little bit of a disagreement going on.” There’s an argument that Grantaire can’t quite hear in the background, but if he's listening for it, it's definitely there.

“This is kind of ridiculous,” Grantaire says.

“Oh, I know,” Combeferre says. “But Enjolras needs this right now, I’m sorry to say. He’s still adapting to not having you with him every single second of the day. It’s impressive that you’re managing so well.”

“I think I just have more practice at this is all,” Grantaire says. When Combeferre makes a curious noise, he adds, “Being the most fucked up person in the room and knowing I have to deal with it myself, I mean.” He wonders about that though, glancing over at Montparnasse and trying to decide whether or not that’s a true statement, since they’re pretty much sitting around eating popcorn in some sort of death shrine for his dead crew. “Just coping isn't exactly-”

“Thank you for trusting me,” Enjolras says out of nowhere, spoken so quickly that Grantaire nearly misses the words. “I know that’s hard to do sometimes, considering some of my previous actions, and I’m touched that you trust me on this.”

Grantaire frowns. “You do remember the other half of that sentence, right?”

“The obsessively overprotective part?” Enjolras asks, not in the least bit bothered.

Courfeyrac’s resigned sigh is so powerful that Grantaire can hear it almost as clearly as Enjolras.

“What? Being devoted to his well-being is not a bad thing. At all,” Enjolras says. Then, his voice immediately becomes smugly pleased. “And if you don’t want to talk about choosing someone for couple’s therapy right now, I’ll have to call you later.”

“Enjolras,” Combeferre chides.

“Also, our dinner reservation for tomorrow’s _date_ -” Enjolras begins.

“Which is still one of the most pointless things ever, by the way,” Grantaire says.

“Indulge me,” Enjolras says. “6:30 at Haletant-”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Enjolras, you might as well take me to the opera!”

“ _Indulge me_ ,” Enjolras says. “And you’re probably in the same room as Montparnasse, he’d be thrilled to help.”

“My relationship with him is a little bit different than yours,” Grantaire says. “And that’s not the problem, the problem’s being surrounded by-”

“Offensively rich people who spend exorbitant amounts of money to eat dandelion salads that would be more suited to a goat?” Enjolras asks, a strange blend of preaching and delicious mischief. “Do you really think I’d pick a place like Haletant for my one chance at convincing you to date me if I didn’t have a plan?” He pauses. “Please do dress nicely, though. And Montparnasse _will_ be thrilled to help. We share a closet, you can’t fool me, he gives you horrible things too.”

“Oh god, those checkerboard pants,” Grantaire says.

“And why does he always give you _scarves_? I’ve never understood that. I don’t even know what the point of those thin filmy scarves are, they aren’t remotely warm, that completely defeats the purpose of a scarf,” Enjolras says.

“Hell if I know,” Grantaire says.

There’s a loud deliberate throat-clearing on Enjolras’ end. “Right. Six thirty at Haletant tomorrow. And. You’re – fucking _stop_ Courfeyrac I’m just – _fine_. Goodnight, sleep well, goodbye,” Enjolras says, and hangs up.

The call was almost exactly ten minutes long.

Grantaire sighs, resigned to his fate, and turns to look at Montparnasse. “I have to ask for your help,” he says. When Montparnasse just slowly raises an eyebrow and tosses more popcorn in his mouth, Grantaire grimaces. “I need to dress up.”

“What kind of up? Are we doing white tie or black tie or no tie or what,” Montparnasse says around a mouthful of popcorn.

“I don’t fucking know,” Grantaire says. Well, _whines_.

“That’s the best up there is,” Montparnasse says, and grins before pulling his phone out and scrolling through something that makes a strange bubbly noise. He points towards one of the doors, not even looking up. “Bathroom’s there, you’re sleeping in the room left of it, you break a knickknack and I break your leg. Questions?”

Grantaire hesitates, but stands, feeling bizarrely formal when he looks straight at Montparnasse and says, “Thank you.”

“Please, getting your ass in fine pants is _not_ a hardship,” Montparnasse says, not looking up, and waves him off.

It would be easy to just go, and Grantaire is so, so tempted, but he clears his throat and says, “No, I meant bringing me here. Keeping my mind occupied. I know you were on a job or something before this, and I mean, sure, I know it’s all for Enjolras, but it was still kind of nice of you and this can’t be easy for you, and you just – fuck, I don’t know what I’m saying. Just, thank you. This was good of you.”

Montparnasse is completely silent, not looking up from his phone. Eventually, Montparnasse says, “You done?”

“I’m done,” Grantaire says, and it’s so fucking weird, this has all been so _weird_. Montparnasse is curled up in the corner of the couch eating popcorn and somehow looks like he’s ten years younger, completely impassive as he keeps on scrolling.

And yet, when Grantaire starts moving, Montparnasse clears his throat. “Well. It’s not _all_ for Enjolras,” he says. “Give him ninety percent. Maybe eighty five.”

“Holy shit, did your heart just grow three sizes?” Grantaire asks, stunned.

“Fuck off, I have shopping to do,” Montparnasse says, and doesn’t _quite_ run into the kitchen, but it’s a close thing, quick hard footsteps that could pass for storming off if Grantaire wasn't acquainted with his usual pace.

And really, Grantaire doesn’t even want to try and deal with that. He said what he wanted to say, so why drag on the awkward kindness between them? He yawns, and follows Montparnasse’s instructions, heading into the bedroom. He’s assuming it belongs to the same person who put up the _bless this mess_ thing, because Montparnasse wasn’t joking about their being knickknacks in here. There’s an entire bookcase full of little collectibles, ranging from toy cars to seashells and ceramic kittens.

Grantaire isn’t even going to let himself wonder about this. He just undresses, climbs into the surprisingly comfortable bed, and slowly falls asleep trying to pretend he’s not still clutching his phone, _just in case_.

\---

By the time Grantaire wakes up, Montparnasse has left a garment bag hooked on of one of the terminator robots, waiting for him. Grantaire doesn’t even look inside of it, wearing the same clothes as yesterday and trying to decide if Montparnasse’s weirdly reasonable-seeming threat to break his leg if he fucks anything up includes smoking indoors. It seems likely (plus who knows how his old crew died), so he just has to fucking deal with it. It’s not like he’s planning to stick around for too long anyway. He grabs the bag, and heads into the kitchen.

Unsurprisingly, Montparnasse is slouching in the big armchair, the poor bashed up _Monty_ mug between his hands. He doesn’t look away from it when Grantaire walks in, just points at the half-full coffee pot and the cup already sitting out, waiting next to sugar and cream.

And for some reason, sometimes, Grantaire’s brain can make impossible leaps with little to no information to a conclusion that seems _right_.

“God, you poor son of a bitch,” Grantaire says, and pours himself some coffee.

Montparnasse groans, head hitting the table as he says, “Fuck, I _know_.”

“Did you kick puppies in your past life or something?” Grantaire asks.

“Probably,” Montparnasse grumbles.

The coffee is far too hot for it, but Grantaire can tell this isn’t going to be a long stay after this conversation, even shorter than he'd originally intended, so he downs his mug in a single swallow – not exactly a difficult feat for him. It burns, but he needs it.

Montparnasse just keeps his forehead on the table, so Grantaire sighs and says, “Please don’t fuck my sister.”

“Too late,” Montparnasse says.

“You know, I really wish I was surprised by that,” Grantaire says, and figures that’s enough on _that_ awkward subject. “I’ve got to get going, so if you could give some directions-”

“Nearest station is four streets that way,” Montparnasse says, and points in some direction or another; Grantaire’s going to guess it’s west. Maybe. Surprisingly, Montparnasse lifts his head off of the table to point at the garment bag Grantaire has thrown over his shoulder. “Also, heads up, maybe don’t wear that around lots of cameras.”

“So you weren't shopping, you were _shopping_ ,” Grantaire says.

Montparnasse just shrugs, and takes a steady sip of his coffee despite the way his hand is shaking, just slightly.

“Great,” Grantaire says, and leaves, grabbing the green binder that Montparnasse had at some point put on the little entry table as he walks out.

He does Montparnasse the favor of not looking at street names or numbers until he’s three streets away.

\---

Doctor Regis Gallot has a medical degree, and a doctorate in psychology, and another five lines of undoubtedly impressive shit to his name that Grantaire doesn’t bother reading. He looks like a turtle with grey hair and a moustache.

Grantaire doesn’t mind him all that much.

It’s mostly because he comes hurrying down the hall and into the waiting room with his quick clipped steps and says, “Will you _please_ make your husband stop calling me? He’s been calling me every five minutes, I’m losing my mind.”

“And here I’m supposed to be the one who needs help,” Grantaire says, but obediently shoots Enjolras a quick _for fuck’s sake leave the poor brain doctor alone_. He doesn’t text Enjolras very often, mostly because he’s a pathetic bastard who will jump at every opportunity to hear Enjolras’ voice, but it works. There’s no reply, so Grantaire assumes he’s actually obeying.

“Every mental health professional has a therapist of their own,” the doctor says. “Or they _should_ , at least. Are you ready to go back?”

“Not remotely,” Grantaire says, but stands up and follows him down the hallway to a wonderfully sunny room with a garden of potted roses in one corner and a couple of armchairs and a couch and a desk in the corner and bookcases and Grantaire sits down very quickly and breathes, he _breathes_ , because this is going to make Enjolras better. They’re codependent enough that a healthy Enjolras means there must be a healthy Grantaire, and this should be easy enough.

The doctor sits in the armchair facing his across a glass coffee table (with _three_ boxes of tissues on it), and says, “The one productive thing about getting called about you every five minutes is I can give you a quick run-down of why I was recommended.” He smiles, wistful. “Apparently it’s hard to find national judo champions who are also psychiatrists. So, don’t worry if you end up trying to kill me. I’ll be okay.”

It’s really fucking weird how reassuring that is.

“So, where would you like to start?” Gallot asks, and waits.

Grantaire just pulls out a cigarette and lights it, settling down to smoke and frown at the doctor. “I have no idea. I’m supposed to _work_ with you, but I’ve got no fucking clue what that means,” he says honestly.

“Usually that means you talk about your problems, and we consider them, and hopefully that process helps you overcome those problems,” Gallot says. “I can also prescribe medication.”

“No medication, _ever_ ,” Grantaire says firmly, and Gallot just shrugs, not bothered in the slightest. “So basically I’m supposed to sit here for an hour and complain about my life.”

“Some people do that, some people don’t,” Gallot says. “The most important thing is honesty. The goal is to help you understand your problems, understand yourself, and find a way to make your life better.”

Grantaire takes a long, deep drag of his cigarette, trying to process all of this. “How do I help Enjolras by being here?”

“I have no idea,” Gallot says, smiling. “And this is the part where we examine the problem and figure things out.”

Grantaire frowns. “Seriously? That’s it? No _tell me about your mother_? No examination of addictive behavior? No Jungian diagnostics?”

“We can do that if you want,” Gallot says.

Grantaire grimaces. “Let's not.”

“That’s what I thought,” Gallot says, and smiles. _Again_. “So, you want to help Enjolras by being here?”

“Obviously,” Grantaire says, and figures hey, if honesty is the point, why not go for it. “If he asks me to do something he _knows_ I don’t want to, it’s usually for a good reason. As far as I’m concerned, this is about as important a reason there is.” When Gallot just gives him a confused look, Grantaire sighs and leans forward. “Look, my life revolves around Enjolras, and I’m absolutely content with that. We both know how fucked up it is, but it _works_. I’m _happy_. True happiness doesn’t happen very often for me. Ever since we met, he’s made my life worth living.”

“That’s a lot of responsibility to put on one man,” Gallot says.

“If Enjolras was anyone else, it’d probably crash and burn in three months,” Grantaire agrees. “But he’s – well, first off you need to know he’s a fucking _idiot_. Never forget that as great as I think he is, I’m also fully aware he’s just completely ridiculous. If you rated his social acumen on a scale of one to ten it’d be negative three. Somehow he can read _me_ , and ABC, but Enjolras isn’t made for that. There’s a reason his answer to _well, nobody’s listening to my speeches_ was _hey, why not just kill people!_ He doesn’t have a safety latch.”

“Safety latch,” Gallot echoes. “What’s a safety latch?”

“It’s that little voice in your head that tells you you’re doing something bad, or stupid, or maybe a little bit evil,” Grantaire says, and smiles. “So, there’s me. I fill in. I’m his conscience while he builds one of his own.”

“He’s _building_ a conscience,” Gallot says. “That doesn’t sound…” He pauses, considering. “Well, if he’s as remarkable as you think he is, maybe he actually can do it.”

“Fingers crossed,” Grantaire says, nodding. “If anyone could, it’s him. He’s.”

Gallot just sits there, waiting as Grantaire decides what the fuck he’s supposed to do here. How does he help Enjolras by babbling to a psychiatrist for an hour? He’s meant to understand problems, and maybe that means he can understand what Enjolras needs.

So, he says, “Enjolras is losing his mind, and I don’t know how to help him. He made this plan, and I trust his plan, no matter how fucking stupid some parts of it are, but he isn’t exactly planning to die of old age. But he was, I don’t know, he was _coping_ until recently. And then he wasn't anymore. He just started to fall apart when we picked up this kid-”

Grantaire freezes. Everything inside of his brain screeches to a stop, slamming into a brick wall shaped in the words _oh fuck, the kid_. The kid who is basically trained to be a spy and has had someone try to (sloppily) murder him already because of it. The kid that’s somehow driven Enjolras insane. The kid that would follow a cat into the arms of Joly and Bossuet, but who else would he go with if they had a fuzzy animal? If a falconer knocked on the door, Fabron would probably jump out of a window to get to the damn bird.

He had completely forgotten there’s a child whose life is in danger, and is a danger to others, and he’s too fucking obsessed with Enjolras to actually tell him about the whole fucked up situation with Fabron and why he was there for them to pick up in the first place.

“Oh _fuck_ , the kid,” Grantaire breathes out, and runs out the doctor’s door, followed by shouts that Grantaire doesn’t even bother listening to. He pulls his phone out and quickly calling Joly as he throws himself against the front door to open the impossibly heavy wood. It’s sunny enough outside that he’s momentarily blinded by the light, listening to his phone ring.

Joly picks up quickly enough, the wait only seeming like it stretches on and on because of the anxiety. “Grantaire! Good morning!” Joly says cheerily.

“Do you have the kid? Is he okay?” Grantaire asks quickly, trying to decide where exactly he should even be going now. Back to the Musain? Towards Joly’s (and Bossuet’s, and Musichetta’s) apartment?

“Oh, Fabron? He left with Enjolras early this morning,” Joly says. “Why?”

“Because he’s actually some kind of baby spy and people are trying to kill him and I’m so fucking _stupid_ that I keep forgetting this situation even exists,” Grantaire says. “Where did Enjolras take him?”

“Wow,” Joly says. “Um. I think he was taking him to breakfast and then your gallery?”

“Why would Enjolras do that?” Grantaire asks, baffled. Enjolras loves Grantaire, sure, but he has no interest in art. At all.

“Well, Fabron was asking a lot of questions about you,” Joly says.

Grantaire stops walking.

“The kid trained as a tiny intelligence agent was asking questions about me,” Grantaire states.

“Oh,” Joly says. “Put like that, it does sound kind of bad, doesn’t it? It seemed like just natural child curiosity about a caretaker, though. Really, he looks harmless.”

Which is probably exactly what Fabron is trained to do.

But _why?_ Why Grantaire?

How important was the villa-owning bad guy they killed? How powerful? Did he have the resources to train a child like Fabron, or was he _on loan?_ The kid killed someone, and fuck knows that’s easier when you don’t actually know the person. And Enjolras undoubtedly sent a cease and desist before they went in, so who knows who else could be involved in this? 

All this time, Grantaire had assumed that Fabron was, what, _inactive_? And why the fuck would they pick _Grantaire_ to spy on when Enjolras is around? Unless they’re trying to get to Enjolras through Grantaire, which honestly would be one hell of a successful tactic. Or it would if they could actually hold him.

Grantaire groans. “This is so bad.”

“Is there anything we can do to help?” Joly asks.

“If I can think of something, I’ll call you,” Grantaire says, since he’s _much_ closer to the gallery than the Joly and company household, and hangs up so he can call Enjolras.

The result is not good.

Enjolras’ phone is turned off, which isn’t exactly surprising since he’s supposed to be in his own brain appointment right now, but his voice mail message isn’t anything Grantaire wants to hear. Not right now.

“ _I can’t come to the phone right now, and if this is Grantaire, please remember I am trying very very hard to limit our contact, as is outlined in the recovery plan,_ ” it says, and then there’s the beep.

Grantaire considers hanging up and not leaving a message.

Instead, he says, “Enjolras, fuck your plan and call me back. This is important. I’m pretty sure Fabron is some sort of trained child intelligence agent and he’s doing _something_ , I don’t know what yet, but basically try to ignore that he’s like nine years old because he is a potential threat who has already killed at least one person. It’s currently…” He checks the time. “Ten fifteen in the morning, and I’m headed to the gallery because Joly told me you took him there. Okay. Bye. Call me back.”

And then, he heads for the gallery.

\---

Over the years, Grantaire resigned himself to doing the incredibly boring (if not legitimately painful) socializing that goes along with professional success. With Enjolras, it meant political bullshit. For Grantaire, it means he has to drink champagne and smile and say _thank you_ about once every four seconds, just standing there and wish he had hard liquor as people tell him how much that one bullshit painting he did in two hours while drunk means to them.

He does take art seriously, but only to a point. Grantaire wants to improve – _knows_ he needs to improve – and he loves the way he can look at his own creation and think, _this is better than the last one_ , but other people’s opinions and commentary have never encouraged him. If anything, they just drag him down.

So, he avoids the gallery as much as he can. It’s associated with social exhaustion in such a thoroughly Pavlovian way that he already feels like his clothes are made of lead and has to physically drag himself through the door.

That doesn’t last very long.

Sirine has been in charge of the gallery for, what, five years now? Nearing six? Grantaire has no idea why she still sticks around when he _knows_ she’s gotten offers to do much more prestigious and high-paying work. Grantaire is used to the way she rushes over to him the second he walks through the door. What he is _not_ used to is Sirine rushing over with wild eyes and a tense smile, loudly saying, “Mister Blanc, please leave, I’m afraid we’re closed for a private showing-”

“Show him in,” someone else says.

Grantaire is really unhappy to remember he’s unarmed, because the voice might sound gentle, but it has an immovable iron core that screams _dangerous_ to Grantaire in a way that has every muscle in his body tense and ready to burst into action.

“It will save both of us a lot of trouble if you come willingly,” the person says again. There’s the slightest roll of an accent that Grantaire can’t place.

For some reason, Grantaire has no fucking clue why, but he’s _obeying_. His body just automatically follows orders without Grantaire's mind being involved in the decision, as if there's some tiny ancient primate instinct that's overpowered him. Sirine walks by his side for the brief journey deeper into the gallery, past sculpture and paintings and their perfect professional lighting.

A woman sits on one of the gallery's benches, dressed casually in jeans and a baggy shirt, completely bald. There are also four very obviously armed men in stereotypical black suits standing around the room. She looks Grantaire over. It's a long scan of her eyes from feet to hair, looking distinctly unimpressed.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” she says. “I’m not going to kidnap you. But I _am_ going to demand your attention. I didn't go through this much trouble to simply look at your little scribbles.”

Sirine makes a pained noise at his side.

Meanwhile, Grantaire just shrugs, because hey, she’s got a point considering some of the shit in here. “Then what are you here for?” Grantaire asks.

“Do you do commissions?” the woman asks, and smiles. It’s not a nice smile. It’s cold, emotionless, like she’s deliberately mocking him with this façade of approachable kindness.

“No,” Grantaire says.

“You do now,” she says, unimpressed. “I’m commissioning two portraits. Name your price.”

“Four million,” Grantaire says.

“Fine,” the woman says.

“ _Each_ ,” Grantaire says, because what the fuck? Is she _insane_? She obviously doesn’t give a fuck about his art if she’s already called it, what, _little scribbles_?

“Still fine,” she says, and waves a hand towards one of her four men, who actually might not be a man. They pull a pen and checkbook out of their jacket, and the woman quickly writes out an obscene amount of money. “I’ll pay half now, half upon delivery, which I expect to be within a month. You have thirty days.”

Grantaire gapes at her. “I – who am I painting? And _why_? This is-”

“You have a track record, and I am taking advantage of it. This will save me a lot of trouble, more than worth the cost. Now, I want both of these portraits big enough to cover, oh,” she looks around, and points behind her. “That wall.”

“What the fuck,” Grantaire says. “You want _two_ of those in a _month_?”

He should probably have asked about the track record part, but he just keeps looking at the absolutely massive wall she pointed at and his brain keeps repeating, _what. What the fuck._

“Yes, it will take quite a lot of your time, won’t it? _And_ your subject’s time,” she says.

“And if I don’t do this?” Grantaire asks.

The woman sighs, looking up at the ceiling for a moment. “Believe me, you want to. This will save both of us a lot of trouble. It will save _France_ a lot of trouble,” she says, and looks him in the eye, dead serious. “And, it will save lives.”

Grantaire has a horrible sinking feeling. “Who am I painting.”

“Gavroche Thenardier,” she says, and leans forward. “I want a _very_ perfect portrait of him. I want you talking to Gavroche Thenardier for hours. I want you taking up his every second. I want you hunting him down to ensure you get this finished on time and dragging him off with you if he won’t come willingly. I want him occupied, and listening to you, and I want a portrait of him so massive and complete that it won’t be able to get out of your studio without using a crane. Understand?”

Unfortunately, he does.

_Track record_ , she’d said. Fuck, he wishes he didn't know what she was talking about.

“What’s he doing,” Grantaire finally manages to whisper.

“Gavroche is completely harmless, at the moment,” the woman says. “Beyond his already entrenched influence on Paris, he’s not worth worrying about. I have bigger concerns. This is to ensure that he _stays_ a minor concern. If you do this right, my concerns about his potential go away.”

Grantaire nods, silent.

“And then I want a portrait of you,” she says.

“No,” Grantaire says, an automatic response. When the woman just raises what _would_ usually be an eyebrow, for someone who has hair, Grantaire shakes his head. “I don’t do self portraits, I don’t-”

“It is going to be as big as that wall. It is going to be of you. It is going to be done in a month,” she states, and stands. “I’ve gone through some trouble to have this conversation. I don’t like having trouble.”

When she walks over to hand him the check, Grantaire realizes how absolutely tiny she is. The woman is barely five feet tall, and yet every time she looks at him Grantaire somehow feels like he’s a failed lab rat.

On the check, her name is written as nothing but _Ananke_.

“Well that’s one hell of an ambitious name,” Grantaire comments. The Greek goddess of destiny and necessity was one of the two gods present at the beginning of the universe, right along with Chronos. Grantaire always loved the fact that the Greek cosmos began with the god of time, and the only god who could say _yes, it’s happening_ , and bam. The universe exists. Because Ananke said so.

“It’s not ambitious,” the woman – Ananke – says. “ _Ambitious_ implies I’m not already in control of the destiny of people like you.”

She shoves the check into Grantaire’s limp, dumbfounded hand, and starts to leave.

“Wait! Stop, hold on, is the kid yours?” Grantaire remembers to ask, barely avoiding getting decked by one of her four followers as he jumps to follow her before she walks out the door. Ananke turns to look at him, interested. “Fabron, the kid we found at that one guy’s house. Is he yours?”

“That was a terrible description, but I can say no, he is not,” Ananke says, the faintest bit of disgust covering her face. “I’m aware of the situation, and I’m glad the man who turned a child into a _tool_ is dead. I’ll find a way to thank you for that public service.”

Grantaire has a feeling that would lead to nothing but a world of problems, so he gives her his best smile and says, “Oh that’s okay, you don’t have to, it was our pleasure, really, so we don’t need-”

“Don’t be a fool. I know you’re smarter than you want others to believe, so you must know that a favor from _me_ isn’t something to turn away,” Ananke says, and leaves without saying another word, swarmed by her black-clad servants.

The minute the door has shut behind Ananke and company, Sirine faints. She crumples to the floor so quickly that Grantaire doesn’t even have time to catch her.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Grantaire mutters, looking down at her limp body with a grimace, and goes over to lock the gallery’s door before grabbing the gallery owner and carrying her over to a bench. He drops her on it and resigns himself to wasting valuable time waiting for her to wake up and be okay before he can actually do something that _matters_.

\---

Enjolras calls at 11:08, and Grantaire picks up after about a millisecond of ringtone, saying, “About fucking time, do you have _any_ idea-”

“I don’t know if I’m even surprised,” Enjolras says. “You _ran out_ , Grantaire, you fucking – you can’t do that, that is _not_ the point of this! That’s going _backwards_ , Grantaire, the entire point of therapy-”

“Fuck therapy, Enjolras, _listen to me_ ,” Grantaire shouts, loud enough that the unconscious Sirine actually shifts.

“I thought you were actually committing to this, but apparently not,” Enjolras says, and fuck, he’s reaching that point of hurt and anger where he ends up saying horrible horrible things that rip Grantaire apart. Grantaire can hear it in his voice, in the tiniest shiver of his usually impeccably smooth speech. “Is a doctor so much to ask?”

“The doctor isn’t the problem,” Grantaire says, because maybe he can derail this suicide car.

Enjolras lets out a long, tired, _disappointed_ sigh. “Then what is?”

“The kid. Fabron. Listen to me, Enjolras. I figured it out. I know he’s not just some random innocent kid we ran across,” Grantaire says, and the fact Enjolras lets out a teeny tiny shocked gasp is _not_ good. Jesus fucking Christ, if Enjolras and company are involved in this fucked up situation, Grantaire is going to. Well. He’s going to do _something_. “Where is he?”

“I’ll come with you,” Enjolras says, completely rigid. “You shouldn’t do this without me.”

“ _Where is he_ ,” Grantaire snaps, because oh god, oh _fuck_ , Enjolras knows something. He knows something, and Grantaire _knew_ he was hiding something, he’s known that for _days_ , why is he even fucking surprised.

“I’m not going to tell you,” Enjolras says.

“Oh, no. No, Enjolras, _no_ , you don’t get to do that, you don’t get to hide him like another painting in a drawer,” Grantaire says, and starts pacing, seriously tempted to ignore potential smoke damage to the art and light a cigarette. He’s completely unarmed, doesn’t even have his flask, it’s all so fucking stupid. He wants to scream. “Oh god, is this why you’re so fucking desperate to keep him?”

“Of course it is!” Enjolras shouts. “Of _course_ it is, Grantaire, can you imagine me _ever_ being able to just sit back and let someone else have him? I want – we have to take care of him, Grantaire.”

“Take care of him,” Grantaire repeats.

“ _Yes_ ,” Enjolras says. “Please, Grantaire, just. I’m not going to tell you to calm down, you have every right to feel whatever you're feeling right now, but please do this for me. Don’t see him alone. He’s safe, and he’s happy, and just wait. Take some time to, god, to _process_. Don’t jump to conclusions, don’t make any decisions. We’ll see him together tomorrow morning, okay? Is that okay?”

And fuck, Enjolras sounds so _hopeful_ , so impossibly reassuring even though he hasn’t said a damn thing to genuinely ease Grantaire’s worries. And there are a _lot_ of worries.

“I swear I’m going to make it okay,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire shouldn’t believe him.

He squeezes his eyes shut. “Enjolras, if I find out you have plans to use Fabron, I am going to hurt you,” he says honestly. “I love you more than anything, but if you’re planning to use a _child_ for the sake of your fucking Cause-”

“I’m not, Grantaire, I never would,” Enjolras says, beautifully soothing. It’s the feeling of gentle fingers running through his hair, being held close and just breathing together, so content and _complete_ that it hurts. “Please, just wait until tomorrow morning to make any decisions. We’ll go see him together. It’ll be okay, I promise. We can talk it over at dinner, everything will be fine, I love you, I promise I’m going to make it okay.”

He should _not_ believe Enjolras. He shouldn’t listen to this, he should demand answers _now_ , he should bash his way out of this stupid soothing bullshit that Enjolras can _always_ do, because Grantaire wants absolutely nothing so desperately as he wants to be safe and happy and content with Enjolras, and that’s all he’s _ever_ wanted. He can’t remember ever wanting anything more.

“Please, _please_ don’t be lying,” Grantaire says, pressing his forehead against the wall, and hangs up.


	8. Haletant - Jardin - Musain

Haletant is the kind of place where Enjolras would fit right in if he’d grown up to be the son his parents wanted. He would sit in the oh so exclusive bar section talking about profit margins and polo matches and only ever drink fifty year old scotch, smiling and nodding and saying _yes, of course_ at all the appropriate times. He would be beautiful and successful and boring and Grantaire is proud to say he would probably not be in love with him.

Probably.

The point is, Haletant is for the beautiful, or the rich, or the beautiful _and_ rich (see: Enjolras). It’s the kind of place where one bottle of wine costs more money than most people make in a month. It’s full of glass and wispy curtains and delicate hanging lights, and the place manages an impossible balance between classic decadence and clean smooth lines. That, at least, Grantaire can appreciate.

Grantaire does _not_ appreciate the fact he fact he feels like a sewer rat surrounded by sleek pampered house cats when he gets through the door. Far too many of them are watching him, and probably wondering how his name was on the list to get in, and Grantaire is going to _have words_ with Enjolras about this brilliant idea of his. Many words. They will probably be extremely loud.

Because Haletant is _the_ place to be, the room is in possession of enough bodies to keep it active and loud and exciting, yet can be exclusive to the point that there aren’t enough people for it to be crowded, only busy.

It’s one of the reasons it’s so easy to find Enjolras in the crowd of beautiful people, leaning against one of the high tables and completely ignoring every single person around him. As ever, if Enjolras is in a bar, he looks bored and disinterested and a little bit disdainful and therefore like an irresistible challenge to basically the entire room. The wedding ring cuts down the number of advances that Enjolras doesn’t even bother to notice, but honestly, not by much.

It still makes Grantaire feel kind of weird to see Enjolras just standing there ignoring the obscenely hot people trying to get his attention. On one hand, holy shit, he’s married to that, Grantaire’s life is awesome. On the other hand, what the fuck, how is he married to that, Grantaire is shit and Enjolras could obviously do _so_ much better. And if he had a third hand it would be full of papers and diagrams and video recordings of how Enjolras is really not exactly a catch because he’s kind of a monster sometimes.

But sometimes, he isn’t.

Grantaire’s just been standing there like an idiot, just a few steps inside and watching the room, staring at Enjolras like a creep.

Enjolras spots him and just fucking _lights up_ , it’s horrible, his smile is dazzling and eager and Grantaire notices he got a haircut _again_ and it’s probably professionally done because it’s absolutely amazing, he looks even hotter than before his scissor mishap and what the fuck, that shouldn’t be physically possible. Enjolras literally _shoves_ the guy awkwardly hitting on him, carelessly pushing him to the side and striding through the crowd towards Grantaire. People are smart enough to move out of his way.

“You’re here,” Enjolras says, still smiling, and screeches to an abrupt stop just before he can actually touch Grantaire. He crosses his arms, probably to keep himself from reaching out as he bounces just a little bit on his toes. “I’m happy you came. You look amazing, really, thank you for trying this, I know you don’t want to and I’m incredibly grateful that you’re willing to let me try and convince you to date me.”

Someone nearby (but not _too_ close) makes a choking noise, and someone else makes a surprised noise, and Grantaire has that sewer rat feeling again. Enjolras either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care.

Grantaire tries very hard to follow his example.

“So how do you want to do this?” Grantaire asks.

Enjolras looks confused. “Like a regular first date,” he says. “We talk, and learn about each other, and-”

“I get that part, and I once again remind you this is really fucking stupid,” Grantaire says. “But I mean the part where you tell me absolutely everything about the kid.”

“Oh,” Enjolras says, smile dimming. He goes quiet for a moment. “The problem is that I don’t want that to influence your decision on whether or not you’re willing to date me.”

“It’s going to influence whether or not I’m willing to be _married_ to you,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras looks completely _shocked_ , which is fucking ridiculous. “Okay, this is not a surprise. We’re talking about a _child_ , Enjolras. You’ve known my policy on children for a very long time.”

Grantaire’s policy is just _no kids._ It’s nice and simple. His ideal world would be one where all children are kept safe and healthy and happy and well cared for and _very safe_ , and also very far away from him.

“Of course I know,” Enjolras says, almost offended. “I would never hurt a child.”

Grantaire just raises an eyebrow.

“I would never _deliberately_ hurt a child,” Enjolras corrects. “Ever.”

He wants to shout about that, but really, it’s as good as he’s ever going to get with Enjolras. At least it’s honest. Honesty is a good sign.

“But my proposition is this,” Enjolras says, and starts talking with his hands, big dramatic gestures. That usually means he had Courfeyrac coach him. Grantaire tries not to be charmed. “Experimental date first, you decide whether or not you’re willing to go along with the dating thing, and then we get to Fabron. I will tell you absolutely everything, we’ll go see him together in the morning, whatever you want to know or say or do, it’ll be done. But _right now_ , this is date time. We go on our first date and behave like people starting a normal healthy relationship would.”

“In other words, if I willingly suffer through this disaster of a date, you’ll finally actually sit down and talk to me about this,” Grantaire says.

“That’s a very pessimistic way to look at my proposition, but yes,” Enjolras says, and stuffs his hands in the pockets of his very nice pants, which go with his very nice suit, which goes with his very nice face. And hair. And eyes.

Grantaire realizes with a sinking feeling he’s lost all acclimatization to Enjolras, thanks to this whole _separation_ thing of his. This is not good.

He’s guessing Courfeyrac dressed him, because there is a weird sartorial competition going on between Courfeyrac and Montparnasse, and Grantaire and Enjolras seem to be the only people who just don’t fucking care what they’re wearing and are therefore willing to go along with it so long as the two don’t get too obnoxious. Courfeyrac is much more _classic_ than Montparnasse. A fluttery scarf was included in Grantaire’s provided probably stolen garment bag. He left that at home.

“Okay, we’ll do it your way,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras glows at him all over again, all eager smiles and a horrifically loving gaze that never shifts from Grantaire. “Then let’s go to dinner,” he says, and leads the way towards the actual restaurant area of Haletant. “But you should know it’s been a while since I went on a date.”

“I kind of know that,” Grantaire says dryly.

“And by a while I mean about seven years,” Enjolras says.

It’s probably the wrong thing to say, but Grantaire still ends up saying, “Holy shit, how did you survive.”

Even subtracting their four years of marriage, that’s _three years_ , and Enjolras definitely wasn’t lying about never having meaningless sex, which means if there was no dating, there was _nothing_. 

He’s still trying to figure out how Enjolras could survive three years without sex and not go insane when they’re led to their weird tiny half-circle booth and sit down. The waiters do that really fucking creepy thing of laying a napkin in Grantaire's lap. That’s a world of no thank you right there, but he just keeps staring at Enjolras, who looks incredibly indulgent, waiting for Grantaire to get back to coherency.

“Three years,” Grantaire says. “Three _years_.”

Enjolras shrugs. “I just wasn’t interested,” he says.

“How does that even work?” Grantaire asks.

“This isn’t that complicated, Grantaire,” Enjolras says, amused. When Grantaire just keeps on frowning at him, he sighs, and finally explains. Kind of. “I think plenty of people are attractive, but I’ve been _attracted_ to only a few. If I don’t genuinely want someone, it all just seems like a lot of work for minimal payback. You have to pick someone, and you have to do some sort of flirting, and you have to deal with potential social ramifications, and it’s really not worth the effort. Does that make sense?”

“Sort of,” Grantaire says.

Actually, it kind of explains a _lot_. He’s never once seen Enjolras check anyone out, and he's never seemed remotely interested in the many, many people who hit on him. The idea of Enjolras having to actually put effort into finding someone to sleep with is truly ridiculous, but again, it makes sense from Enjolras’ perspective if there isn’t an automatic _holy shit I’d fuck him in a heartbeat_ reaction.

Enjolras has never really understood the whole sexual attraction thing, has he? Grantaire always thought it was just disdain or overblown morals or how disgustingly arrogant Enjolras gets sometimes, but no, that’s genuinely how he is. It’s not a choice or some morality bullshit. It’s how he actually feels.

“Huh,” Grantaire says, and leans forward, elbows on the table. Now that he’s wrapped his mind around this, it’s just kind of fascinating, really. “So how often are you attracted to people? How few people are we talking?”

Enjolras frowns, obviously thinking very hard about the answer. “Once every few months, sometimes once a year or two. It varies significantly,” he says. “So that would come to something between ten to twenty people. I’d guess twelve.”

“Wow,” Grantaire says. He had no clue how much of an exclusive club he’s in, the thought rattling around in his brain. “Wait, that means you’ve been attracted to someone while we’ve been married.”

“And you haven’t?” Enjolras asks, lips twitching in a valiant struggle to keep his expression at least a _little_ serious. He clearly thinks this is hilarious.

“That’s different! I think plenty of people are hot but, I mean, if it’s that rare for you, it probably means something when it happens, right? It’s kind of special?” Grantaire says.

Enjolras does that whole beaming grin with the bright loving eyes thing at him, oh god. “Yes, it is,” he says.

Really, Grantaire just walked right in to that.

“No, I mean – okay, fine, I know that conversation would go nowhere,” Grantaire says, waving that idea off. “I just, I don’t know. Tell me when it happens.”

“You do realize this is pretty much me seeing someone somewhere and thinking they’re hot,” Enjolras states. “This isn’t intentionally selective or targeted or planned. It just _happens_.”

“And what did you do about that when I wasn’t around?” Grantaire asks.

Enjolras doesn’t look happy about it, but he says, “Date them until I got bored.”

“All of them?” Grantaire asks.

Enjolras just shrugs.

“Also, I’m noticing no pronouns here,” Grantaire says.

“There’s plenty of pronouns. One person I was attracted to was agender and used they and them pronouns,” Enjolras says.

“And here I just assumed you were gay with a superiority complex,” Grantaire says. “I mean, you still have a superiority complex, but it’s not as big as I thought.”

“I honestly didn’t think this was important,” Enjolras says, and frowns. “ _Is_ this important?”

“Not really,” Grantaire says. “Well, maybe sort of important. A few things make more sense, but we could’ve gotten along just fine without me knowing it, so I don’t know if that counts as important.”

And holy shit, Enjolras’ not-quite-insecurity about Grantaire being bisexual kind of makes sense now too. If sexual attraction is such a big deal for him, and Grantaire gets that _all the time_ , worrying about whether or not he’s happy with _just_ Enjolras would seem reasonable. Kind of. It’d seem reasonable to Enjolras, at least.

The sexual epiphanies just keep on coming.

But Enjolras keeps frowning, clearly worried he’s forgotten to do something that is incredibly vital to their relationship and he just doesn’t know it, so Grantaire reaches over to put a hand on his shoulder for a moment. “Everything’s fine, you didn’t fuck up, I promise,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras’ shoulders visibly loosen in relief, and he nods silently.

Because this is an incredibly fancy restaurant, the waiters are very good, and that means they know when to show up and when to wait out a conversation. So, their waiter glides out from nowhere to smile at them and take drink orders and sometimes Grantaire really fucking hates Enjolras because he looks up at the waiter about four words into his introduction, smiling in a horrible sappy kind of way, and says, “This is our first date.”

“And yet, we’ve been married for four years,” Grantaire says.

“This is the cutest thing I’ve heard in months,” their waiter says. “Are you renewing your vows?”

Enjolras looks far too intrigued by that idea, so Grantaire says, “Enjolras, I swear to god.”

“ _Oh_ ,” their waiter says, actually _looking_ at them, and Grantaire knows that look. He resigns himself to another person fawning over Enjolras, except the waiter’s eyes snap right to Grantaire, wide and fiery. It is terrifying. The elated slash of a smile that cuts into their evening is even worse. “Wow. You’re _R_. ”

Everything inside of Grantaire freezes as he thinks, _oh fuck please no_.

“Wow. It’s an honor to meet you, it really is. I’ve always wanted to, god, would you sign something? I have postcards,” the water continues, and Grantaire grabs onto the edge of the table with bone-white knuckles. “I just have to say, your multi-canvas art is just, it’s so amazing. I’m a huge fan, I would love to pick your brain, and talk to you about your work. For _hours_. I mean, _everyone_ knows the triptych is amazing, the _passion_ in the Tripoli piece is so powerful, it’s so overwhelming, how did you-”

“Stop talking _now_ ,” Enjolras says right about when Grantaire’s starting to really freak out because what the fuck, _what the fuck_ , how does Enjolras deal with this oh god Grantaire usually has time to prepare himself for this shit when there’s some sort of art thing he has to do but he’s just _so_ not ready for this he’s defenseless and just sitting with Enjolras, who has moved, and is now sitting directly next to Grantaire and holding his hand, an arm around Grantaire’s shoulder, his forehead pressed against Grantaire’s temple.

“It’s okay,” Enjolras says softly. “It’s okay, he’s gone.”

“I want to leave,” Grantaire says. He wants to say how fucking stupid he feels, but more than that, more than _anything_ , he wants to not be here.

And apparently that’s all it takes, because Enjolras pushes Grantaire out of the booth and takes a moment to toss some cash on the table before taking hold of Grantaire’s hand and leading him directly out of Haletant, and then he just keeps on walking until they’re in a park.

Enjolras doesn’t stop towing him along until they’re sitting on a bench beneath autumn trees. The leaves are still desperately clinging to their branches, even though it’s just holding off the inevitable.

“How do you feel?” Enjolras asks.

The honest answer is that he feels like a fucking idiot, some kind of tiny delicate glass figurine Enjolras has to protect when people start poking at it.

Anything else. Anything else, the waiter could’ve picked _anything else_ and Grantaire could’ve just fucking dealt with it. But no, oh no, he had to go for that one.

 _Passion_ , he’d said.

“I feel like shit,” Grantaire says. It is in no way a lie.

“Understandable,” Enjolras says, and gently runs a hand through Grantaire’s hair. “Can I help?”

“You’re already helping,” Grantaire says, leaning back into Enjolras’ hand just enough to make sure he understands. He sighs. “I have to say, tonight hasn’t exactly sold me on the dating idea.”

“What would?” Enjolras asks.

It takes Grantaire a minute, seriously considering the question, but eventually, he says, “I don’t know.”

Since they’re no longer in a fancy restaurant where Grantaire would probably get kicked out if he made even a twitch in a direction the staff didn’t like, Grantaire finds where he stored his cigarettes and lighter in the jacket Montparnasse provided. He doesn’t bother offering one to Enjolras; Grantaire can read him well enough to know he’d just say no. Enjolras is very obviously in a stare-at-Grantaire kind of mood. He can tell from the staring.

“Let me try to convince you,” Enjolras eventually says after a long moment of silence. Grantaire is already down a third of his cigarette, just leaning back into Enjolras’ hand as they sit. “The restaurant was a bad idea, I should’ve known that, it was obvious, but I was just.”

Grantaire turns to frown at him when Enjolras cuts himself off so quickly. “You were what?”

“It’s a first date,” Enjolras says, blushing slightly and very pointedly not looking at Grantaire. “I didn’t want to mess it up.”

“You were _nervous?_ ” Grantaire blurts out, which just makes Enjolras wince. “How? This is _me_ we’re talking about, how could you be worried about this? I am so fucking easy for you. I have followed you into much worse places than a pretentious restaurant – you could take me _anywhere_. For fuck’s sake, I’ve followed you into _sewers_ , without a single second of hesitation. Why would you be nervous about this?”

“Because this is a _date_ , Grantaire!” Enjolras finally snaps, exasperated. “This is trying to pick somewhere that you’d like, and I just thought for some reason that the right thing to do was go to the best-reviewed restaurant I could find, and then. I thought I could somehow make it good, and everything would be flawlessly perfect. It’s _ridiculous_ , I obviously know better than this, I _know_ , but I was sitting there thinking, _oh god, where do I take him, what’s appropriate_ , and-”

“The location isn’t the important part, Enjolras,” Grantaire says. “The _date_ is the important part, not where you take me. It’s not like I’m going to look at anything but you anyway.”

Grantaire really needs to think before he speaks, but Enjolras smiles at him, so there’s probably no damage done. Hopefully. Besides, it’s not like that’s a big unexpected surprise or anything.

“Have I mentioned you look beautiful?” Enjolras says. “You always do, of course-”

“Oh, naturally,” Grantaire says, sarcastic, an automatic response.

“It’s true,” Enjolras says, almost offhanded, like it’s such a fact that he doesn’t need to bother arguing. “But you look great and you should know that. Where would you like to go for our date?”

“I’ve never really been one for dating, you know,” Grantaire says.

“Oh, I’m well aware,” Enjolras says, amused for some reason. He pauses, considering something. “Let’s do this instead. Where would you take _me_ on a date?”

“Probably somewhere you could start a good riot,” Grantaire says. Enjolras makes a noise that’s not quite a laugh and god, fuck it, Grantaire gives in and tilts to the side, resting his head on Enjolras’ shoulder.The hand in his hair repositions immediately, wrapping around his shoulders and holding him close, but not _too_ close. 

It is dangerously perfect. 

“Honestly? I’d probably find some sort of philosophy or political theory lecture, and then we’d eat somewhere nearby afterwards. Or break into a filthy rich person’s private library so we could make off with all their rare books.”

“God, those are amazing. You are so much better at this,” Enjolras says.

“That’s what you get for being so pretty. You don’t know how to work for it,” Grantaire says. “Also, keep in mind this isn’t just off the top of my head. I used to spend a lot of time thinking about this.” He sighs. “A _lot_ of time.”

It took about three months for Grantaire to really accept that there was nothing romantic, or sexual, or _anything_ about their partnership. It was three months of Grantaire slipping careful invitations into conversations that Enjolras never noticed and Grantaire never mentioned again. He _still_ isn’t going to mention it. Enjolras is oblivious, and it works just fine that way.

“I thought up so many ways to tell you,” Enjolras says, and his fingers move back into Grantaire’s hair. “There were hundreds of plans, at least twelve speeches, and I never used a single one of them.” He makes an amused noise. “I memorized almost twenty pages of statistics and persuasive arguments for the original PACS signing, and you just _signed it_. That was quite possibly the most anticlimactic experience of my entire life.”

“You’re welcome,” Grantaire says.

“That is _by far_ my least favorite of our marriages,” Enjolras says firmly.

“That wasn’t a marriage, that was underhanded paperwork,” Grantaire says, and closes his eyes. “Listen to me for a second, okay? We aren’t a dating kind of couple, Enjolras. It’s very much all or nothing with us, none of this gentle tiptoeing courtship bullshit you want to do. If you want to try it, I will, but it’s not _us_. I know that’s kind of the point of this, but what we have _works_. It’s fucked up, but it works, so why try to fix it?”

Enjolras is quiet for a long, long time. Long enough that Grantaire’s cigarette dies between his fingers, unnoticed as Grantaire just instinctively matches the rhythm of his breath to Enjolras’.

“It doesn’t work,” Enjolras finally says. His voice is hoarse, ragged, completely shockingly rough while Grantaire is practically nodding off against his shoulder. “It doesn’t, Grantaire. I’m sorry, I know you believe it works, but it _doesn’t_. There’s always been two things we don’t talk about, and god, Grantaire, we have to face reality. I’m fucking _terrified_ , but we have to.”

“What two things?” Grantaire asks, even though Enjolras has been subtly kicking him in the face with one of them for the past week.

There is a long, deafening pause.

“The first is your past, and I will never push on that,” Enjolras says, as expected. “ _Never_. That’s yours, and isn’t the problem.”

Grantaire nods, and waits.

Enjolras lets out a shuddering breath. “The second is that we are going to die,” Enjolras says, like their lives are a suicide charge. “The ideal situation is that it’s both of us at the same time, instantaneous and painless. More likely is that one of us dies, and.”

“If one of us dies, both of us die,” Grantaire finishes for him.

“I don’t want that,” Enjolras says, voice rasping. “I don’t – that’s why we need to do this. I need to know you can live without me, because you _can_ , Grantaire. All this time I’ve just been fucking _accepting_ it, ignoring it, just thinking sensibly about ways to take as many people as possible with me-”

“No,” Grantaire says, feeling absolutely nothing but _horror_ at the idea of Enjolras any kind of dead. He’s frozen with a hand clenched fiercely in the lapel of Enjolras’ jacket. “No. _No_ , Enjolras, you can’t-”

“And I already know that you’d – you’d just. I try to tell myself _at least it’d be quick_ , but oh god, Grantaire,” Enjolras says, and twists sharply, moving forward to grab Grantaire and pull him into a furiously tight hug. “Please, _please_ , there’s so much more than me, Grantaire, there’s _so much more_.”

“I don’t want more,” Grantaire says.

“I fucking _know_ , and it’s just gotten worse and worse,” Enjolras says. “I can’t live without you, I can’t think or work or breathe or _live_. That’s why we have to do this, Grantaire. We _must_ do this. Our lives depend on it.”

“Date or die,” Grantaire says, and closes what little distance there is between them to press his lips against Enjolras’ cheek.

Grantaire isn’t going to change.

If Enjolras goes down, Grantaire will follow. _Immediately_. It wasn’t always immediately, it used to be just getting the job done, but now, no. Fuck no. His heart is incapable of beating if Enjolras’ isn’t. One nice easy bullet, and everything would be fine and finally, _finally_ , everything would be _done_.

But Enjolras whispers, “Promise me, Grantaire.”

It’s not easy, considering the fiercely tight grip Enjolras has on him, but Grantaire manages to twist, and move, and straddles Enjolras. It’s awkward, but Grantaire doesn’t fucking care, because Enjolras looks like he’s falling apart. Grantaire gets a hand in Enjolras’ hair and gently guides him into a soft, hopefully soothing kiss.

All it does is leave Enjolras shaking, forehead pressed against Grantaire’s. “ _Promise me_ ,” he repeats, desperate. “I know you. I _know_. Please, just-”

Grantaire kisses him again. He means for it to be delicate, and reassuring, but Enjolras takes over the second their lips touch. He wastes absolutely no time, there’s no build-up, he just releases the hug and kisses Grantaire like he’s going to destroy him, like he’s _furious_ , dragging Grantaire’s lips up and his tongue forward and keeps Grantaire’s head exactly where he wants it. There’s no gasping for air because Enjolras doesn’t let him, just keeps Grantaire trapped and _wanted_ until he pulls away to bite at Grantaire’s earlobe.

Grantaire groans. “Let’s go home,” he manages to say. His voice is rough.

“It’s still date night,” Enjolras says, and nips at Grantaire’s neck, one of his hands sneaking under Grantaire’s overly soft shirt, just fucking _teasing_ at his skin.

“Then you better pick somewhere to go pretty fucking fast or we’re going to fuck right here, _right now_ ,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras makes an intrigued noise against Grantaire's skin.

“Oh fuck, I absolutely put out on the first date, I am so fucking easy,” Grantaire says quickly, and gets a hold of the unnecessarily complicated buckle on Enjolras’ fancy belt.

“No,” Enjolras commands, and Grantaire’s hands drop to his side so fast it almost hurts.

“What’s happening?” Grantaire asks, a little bit lost, because that was one hell of a tone change if ever there was one.

Enjolras pulls his hand out from Grantaire’s shirt, leans back until he’s just looking at Grantaire, who is still practically in his lap. “It’s date night,” Enjolras repeats, firm and resolved and incredibly stubborn. “We’re going to go on a date.”

“Okay?” Grantaire says, dragging the word out.

Enjolras nods to himself. “If this is my one chance-”

“Enjolras, it’s fine,” Grantaire says.

“It is _not_ fine,” Enjolras says. Well, _declares_. Grantaire feels like he’s straddling a town crier. “We’re dressed nicely, it’s a decent enough night out, I’m hungry, you’re probably hungry, and I refuse to let our one and only date be _this_. We are going to eat, and I am going to think up a date activity while we eat, and it will be a good first date.”

Grantaire’s tempted to put some sort of _thus spoke the lord_ on the end of Enjolras’ little speech. Either that, or tell him he’s a fucking ridiculous loser.

“Then lead on,” Grantaire says instead, and stands, hand already waiting for Enjolras.

\---

“Just when I think this date thing can’t get more ridiculous,” Grantaire mutters.

“This is going to be fun,” Enjolras says firmly.

“This is going to be a crowded waste of time,” Grantaire says. 

“Stop being such a pessimist,” Enjolras says, and squeezes their joined hands, smiling. Hopeful. “You love Paris.”

“Not like you do,” Grantaire says. The elevator rattles again.

Nobody loves Paris like Enjolras loves Paris. Or like he loves the entirety of France. Enjolras doesn’t really do moderation or compromise all that well, so of course he can’t stop at just Paris. He tries very hard to be some kind of world citizen, and fails at it every single time.

But clearly they’re having two different conversations here, because Enjolras’ smile brightens, and he says, “I know. You see Paris how an artist sees Paris. I’ll never be able to do that.”

Grantaire doesn’t _quite_ laugh. It’s a little bit scoffing, a lot bit wry. “Where I see colors, you see causes?”

“I see potential, and you see reality,” Enjolras says.

“What?” Grantaire asks. Enjolras just shrugs. “I have no fucking clue what that means.”

The elevator stops. It’s late enough that there aren’t too many tourists, but it’s still obnoxious, and they’re the last ones to step out. Immediately, Enjolras starts towing Grantaire along, weaving through the slow spreading drift of humanity to park Grantaire as close to the edge as possible.

“See all of the lights?” Enjolras asks, waving a hand, wide and all-encompassing, his fingertips nearly touching the fence standing between them and a _very_ long drop. Enjolras’ voice carries clearly over the wind. “What do you see when you look at them?”

When he focuses on nothing but the night lights of Paris, the view looks like a horribly knitted blanket of diamonds stretched across the Earth. It’s a dark night, the waxing moon covered by clouds, so lights and illuminated buildings are as much of a view as they’re getting. The oh so romantic nightly light-up of the Eiffel Tower isn’t helping, either.

“I see the view, Enjolras. What are you expecting me to say?” Grantaire asks.

“I see people,” Enjolras says. For a moment Grantaire thinks that maybe Enjolras has developed some kind of eagle-sharp night vision, but no, he’s just being dramatic and symbolic and trying to prove a point somehow. “Every light is lit by a human being.”

“Or it’s a street light,” Grantaire helpfully points out.

“Which is in turn installed by people, and powered from a power plant staffed by people,” Enjolras smoothly counters, and starts pointing at areas. “Some places practically glow, while other streets are barely even lit. Is it because there are no people there, or is it because there are no lights for the people?”

“You’re really stretching here,” Grantaire tells him.

“The point is that I don’t – I _can’t_ just see lights,” Enjolras says. “I can’t think of Paris as a place. It’s people. It’s always people. And some of them need lights, and nobody will ever give them one. Not if people can ignore them. See? You can’t even tell there’s something there.”

He just nods, giving Enjolras the point, and looks around. There’s a champagne bar, but it’s closed. He keeps Enjolras’ hand, and starts walking the edge of the platform. If he’s up here, he might as well enjoy the view.

“I know you see more than just the view,” Enjolras says.

This is still their date, Grantaire remembers. It’s still Enjolras trying to do that casually romantic getting-to-know-you thing. They’re both still dressed up ridiculously fancily (for them), and really, Enjolras is trying so hard.

So, Grantaire says, “I’ve never actually been up here before.”

“Oh?” Enjolras says, and speeds up to be walking next to Grantaire rather than just a step behind.

“My mom promised to take us when we came to Paris the first time, but she didn’t,” Grantaire says. “Michelle was furious, but I already knew there was no point in getting angry. Honestly, those were the standard settings for all involved.”

Very, very carefully, like a conversational brain surgeon, Enjolras asks, “How old were you?”

“Nine, maybe ten. Old enough to know better,” Grantaire says. He wishes the champagne bar was open. And also served vodka.

“Michelle doesn’t seem like an angry person,” Enjolras says.

“This may come as a surprise, Enjolras, but sometimes, people change,” Grantaire says. “Besides, she’s got pretty much everything she ever wanted, so there’s not much to be angry about.”

Grantaire can tell the exact second Enjolras decides to go for it. His hand tightens around Grantaire’s, his resolve face goes on, and Enjolras says, “Your mother-”

“She didn’t do it, end of story,” Grantaire says. “There’s nothing important involved in that. Let’s talk about something else.”

Enjolras is obviously struggling with dropping the topic, but finally, he stops walking. Grantaire is forced to stop as well. He turns to frown and face Enjolras, who takes a deep breath and asks, “Can I comment?”

“Does this comment involve anything to do with my mother or sister?” Grantaire asks. Enjolras shakes his head. “Does it involve me before we met?”

“No,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire can’t help but be intrigued. It’s an uncomfortable kind of intrigued, though, like wondering how quickly blood can drain out of a body. “Okay. Let's hear your comment,” Grantaire says.

“You’ve never broken a promise,” Enjolras says. “Not like she did.”

“Yes I have,” Grantaire says.

“No, you haven’t,” Enjolras says firmly. “I don’t mean some offhanded promise to floss or something. I mean a genuine _promise_. If you swear to do something, you never go back on your word. Not consciously, and never when it’s something important. If you say _I promise_ , I know I can trust it completely.”

Grantaire has a horrible sinking feeling, like he’s about to fall through the metal floor and drop to his doom.

He should’ve known this was not a conversation Enjolras would drop. Ever.

“Please, Grantaire,” Enjolras says softly. He steps closer, squeezes Grantaire’s hand, but doesn’t touch Grantaire beyond that. He just looks into Grantaire’s eyes, sincere and loving and absolutely desperate. “Please, promise me. I know you don’t want to, I know you feel like there would be nothing left if I’m gone, but there is. There’s so much more. Promise me you’ll stay alive.”

“I can’t promise to stay alive,” Grantaire says. “I can’t promise to _not die_ , I can’t promise I won’t want to-”

“I’m not asking for that,” Enjolras says, and reaches up with his free hand to just rest his fingertips against the back of Grantaire’s neck, unmoving, as if he’s uncertain he’s welcome and refuses to ask. “Promise me you won’t kill yourself, or hurt yourself, or actively seek some sort of life-threatening _thing_. Promise me you’ll at least _try_ to live.”

“And you’d promise to do the same thing?” Grantaire asks.

“If you promise, I’ll promise,” Enjolras says immediately.

But it’s different for Enjolras. He may have forgotten it all, may still be trapped in his own head and slowly emerging from the fucked up prison he was tortured into, but he has more in his life. Enjolras has his friends and he has The Cause and he has a life outside of Grantaire.

And that’s what they need, Grantaire realizes.

“We don’t need to do this,” Grantaire says. “We don’t need to break up and try again. We need to have our own lives.”

Enjolras is very obviously fighting to not glare. “Grantaire, now is not-”

“No, listen to me, Enjolras,” Grantaire says, and grabs on to Enjolras’ fancy lapel. “ _Listen_. We’re fucked up. We know that. This is an important conversation. But the problem, the reason it is so fucking difficult for either of us to say yes to this, is we have nothing else. You gave up on everything you’d been building just to take care of me, going back to the old routine of traveling and killing people because it’s normal and comfortable – well, for us. Which is fucked up. But we were making a _life_. We were making a real, permanent life together. This conversation wouldn’t be necessary for another twenty years if it hadn’t all gone to shit.”

“It’s too late to go back, Grantaire,” Enjolras says softly, barely audible.

Grantaire laughs. “You’re a fucking hurricane turned human, Enjolras, you can do _anything_.”

Something inside of Enjolras is cracking. “But I can’t, Grantaire. I _can’t_ , not anymore. Not how I am now. Maybe before-”

“You aren’t broken,” Grantaire says.

“Then what the fuck am I, Grantaire? No. No, I _am_ broken,” Enjolras snaps, and the hand against Grantaire’s neck grabs him, harsh and desperate. “I had a fucking breakdown when you went _painting_ , Grantaire. You were gone for no time at all and I just completely lost it, _completely_ , and I’m going to do it again. And again. And again. Every time you’re gone-”

“Then I’ll be with you. I’ll be with you until you’re okay,” Grantaire says, and can’t help it. He smiles. “We can do this, Enjolras. We can survive. We need to _add_ to our lives, not rip things out.”

“ _How?!_ ” Enjolras shouts. Grantaire is vaguely aware of some tourists turning to look at them. “That’s _gone_ , Grantaire. It’s gone! What little bit of our life wasn’t taken from us, I threw away. And fuck, I’m not even sure I _want_ it back. The politics are-”

“Who said anything about politics?” Grantaire asks, and it makes Enjolras stop and finally _think_ , staring at Grantaire. “Who says we need to try and pick up the pieces? I’m talking about _making_ a life, not going back to one.”

“A life doing what?” Enjolras asks.

“How should I know?” Grantaire says. “I don’t do the planning. You’re in charge of that part. We have so much money from my art that we could do and be pretty much anything. We have so much fucking money, Enjolras. I mean it. _Anything._ What did you want to be when you grew up?”

Enjolras looks completely adrift, and drops his hand away from Grantaire’s neck. “I.”

Grantaire waits. Enjolras had trouble with the last realization that _they don’t have to do this_ , and he wants to be ready to support Enjolras however he needs to be supported.

The kind of life they lead is almost painfully lonely. Grantaire can only imagine what it was like for Enjolras before he came into the picture – even when they’re together, Enjolras still has trouble with it, although he doesn’t say anything. Enjolras is very much – _very_ much – a people person. Killing people instead of preaching at them is basically the complete opposite of what would really make Enjolras a happy, semi-sane individual.

It takes a long time, spent watching Enjolras stare out at the lights of Paris.

Finally, Enjolras says, “That could work.”

Grantaire feels like someone punched him in the heart, made it stop for a moment and then explode, because of the _tone_. He hasn’t heard this Enjolras in a long, long time. Not really. Not anywhere outside of their bedroom. It’s the sound of absolute confidence, smooth and clear with just the most subtle of sharp edges running beneath his words, an impossibly effective auditory notification that if you fight him, you will lose.

He has no idea what Enjolras just did. Maybe the tiniest shift of his shoulders, the lift of his chin, the smallest of smiles teasing onto his lips, _something_ , but now people stare at him. Absolutely everyone at least glances his way when they walk past.

“That could definitely work,” Enjolras says, downright smug now, and Grantaire finds himself thinking, _ah yes, there he is, I’d wondered where my beautiful arrogant asshole went._

Grantaire doesn’t know if Enjolras is planning on saving, destroying, or ruling the world. It’s probably all three. No matter which one it is, Enjolras looks so certain that Grantaire can't help but believe it might actually work.

“Come on,” Enjolras says, and starts leading Grantaire back to the elevator. “I need to talk to Combeferre. And Courfeyrac. I need to talk to a lot of people. How much money _do_ we have, anyway?”

“A lot,” Grantaire says, and doesn’t mention the shiny new four million addition to their account. He just follows Enjolras, and eventually asks. “Do I get to be in on the plan, at least?”

Enjolras smiles at him, somehow both ruthless and unbearably sweet as they step into the elevator. “How do you feel about burglary?”

\---

“If I get to change one thing, it’s this,” Grantaire says.

They’re standing outside of Enjolras’ (their) apartment door. Grantaire is trying to look as serious as he possibly can, hoping he can get the _communication_ part across without having to use the phrase. If Enjolras wants to be more normal, hey, Grantaire will try to help. Kind of.

At this point the date thing’s just kind of funny and…well, honestly kind of fun. After Enjolras was informed that it was incredibly late on a weekday and nobody wanted to talk to him unless the world was ending, it got a lot better. Their journey home involved Grantaire trying to help Enjolras figure out that whole flirting thing. It didn’t go well. It also helps that they’ve been married for four years, so Grantaire isn’t a complete mess of nerves, magically free of all the panic about whether or not Enjolras _like_ -likes him. That’s a nice feeling.

“What? The front door?” Enjolras asks, frowning and glancing between Grantaire and the door like the idiot he is.

“No, Enjolras, not the fucking door,” Grantaire says, and god, it’s almost painful to deal with how oblivious Enjolras is sometimes. “You’ve been on dates before. You know standard protocol. Assess the situation.”

Enjolras’ eyes widen. “ _Oh_. Right. It’s just – it’s my door too, so it didn’t really-”

“Stop being nervous,” Grantaire says patiently. It is very strange to be the secure one in this relationship. “Do you in any way doubt that I love you?”

“Of course not!” Enjolras says, and looks genuinely offended by the thought. “That’s _absurd_ , who said-”

“Do you doubt that I can say no if you do something I’m not okay with?” Grantaire continues, steamrolling Enjolras’ indignant demands about _who dares to say such things_.

“I don’t,” Enjolras says, and makes a frustrated noise. “But you _never_ say no.”

“Exactly,” Grantaire says, and waits. Silently.

Any and all confidence Enjolras evaporated right about when Enjolras realized what’s going on. Now Grantaire is stuck watching Enjolras act like a dog trying to figure out a screen door for the first time, full of bizarre half-starts and then stepping back and making a frustrated noise. “Won’t you at least-”

“Nope,” Grantaire says. “Hey, look at that, I said no to something. Wow, I’m pretty good at that.”

Enjolras scowls at him. “That isn’t helping, Grantaire,” he says.

“You’ve done this before,” Grantaire says.

“ _Twice_ , both for good reasons,” Enjolras says, and he undoubtedly keeps track of this, so Grantaire doesn’t even bother trying to think of when there might’ve been a third. “And I apologized for the ambulance one.”

Which is true.

Enjolras just keeps looking frantic and pitiful.

So, Grantaire sighs, and says, “We can work on that later, I guess. What _are_ you comfortable doing?”

After a long, tense moment, Enjolras puts a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder. Carefully. Lightly. _Very_ lightly. He’s basically not even touching Grantaire. His hand’s just kind of hovering over Grantaire’s jacket.

“Right,” Grantaire says. “You can do pretty much any and every filthy thing you can think of with me, but you can’t touch my shoulder without asking.”

“It’s not that simple, Grantaire! I can hold your hand, and I can hug you, and – I can do everything that isn’t sexual. I’ve undressed you plenty of times, and it was fine. I once shoved you naked into a shower and washed you without a single word of permission, and it was fine. That’s the situation. If it isn’t sexual, there’s no issue,” Enjolras says, and demonstrates by putting _both_ hands on Grantaire’s shoulders, and then pulling him in for a tight, warm, wonderful hug. He even softly kisses Grantaire’s head. “See?”

Grantaire lets himself enjoy the hug for a moment, eyes shut and leaning completely against Enjolras, but there’s a goal here, so he pulls back, nodding. “I think I understand,” he says. “So, hand on shoulder is as much as you’re comfortable with right now, even though it can be taken in a completely non-sexual way.”

Enjolras gives him a very intense look that says plenty on interpreting that as _non-sexual_.

“Well, fuck knows you can _talk_ , even at the most inappropriate or inconvenient times,” Grantaire says. Enjolras just shrugs, not even a little bit apologetic for the _many_ times that has gotten them (well, Grantaire) in trouble. “Okay. Can you agree to just _try_ to touch me? We can work up to kissing, and you don’t have to do it right now. I didn’t realize this was so hard for you. I’ve already waited four years, trust me, you’re fine. Slow works for me.”

The visible relief on Enjolras’ face almost hurts to look at, and holy shit, Grantaire had no fucking clue it was this much of an issue. He still doesn’t quite understand. 

So, he asks, “Can you explain why this is so difficult for you?”

Enjolras considers for a moment, and finally says, “It’s the difference between having an invitation versus an unlocked door. I know I’m welcome either way, but just opening the door feels…less comfortable. I’d prefer an invitation. Or to _knock_ , at the very least.”

Knocking is probably the equivalent of backing Grantaire up against a wall and giving him that look of fire and sex and just _waiting_.

The metaphor actually works pretty well, considering Grantaire’s imaginary sex door is so unlocked that Enjolras just has to tap a fingernail on it for the thing to swing wide open.

“Well then,” Grantaire says, and unlocks the real life actual front door of the apartment, although he keeps it shut. There’s still first date tradition to follow. “Final verdict. This was an okay first date. Kind of. You were obviously trying, which really does count a lot when it comes to first dates, so I’d give you a second try.”

“Thank god,” Enjolras breathes out, genuinely relieved.

“And I would _definitely_ invite you in,” Grantaire says. “But I’m going to be honest, you could’ve done nothing but click your tongue at me for five hours and I’d probably still invite you in.”

“I feel like that’s supposed to be offensive,” Enjolras says.

“I promise I love you for who you are as a person, but you could be a brainless slob and I’d still fuck you,” Grantaire says. “Probably only once, though. And I’d probably try to gag you or something.”

Enjolras frowns. “You’ve never-”

“Oh no. _You_ , I would not gag. Ever. _Ever_. Divine intervention couldn’t make me want to gag you. Brainless slob version of you who I’m using for his body? Yes. Him, I would gag,” Grantaire says. “ _You?_ Actual Enjolras, with actual Enjolras’ brain and words? Fuck no.”

Enjolras smiles and looks so adorably flattered by that.

“Thank you for doing this,” Enjolras says. “I know you think dating is pointless and stupid, and I know in a lot of ways it is, but I really do think it could be good for us. We’ve both learned something about each other-”

“Yeah, don’t expect that to happen very often,” Grantaire says.

“I have no expectations, only hope,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire will never know how he can say shit like that and make it sound completely natural and offhanded. “Is the second date something you’re actually willing to do, or is it a verdict in a hypothetical performance review?”

“You can get your second date,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras smiles like he’s triumphed in a much larger battle than whether or not Grantaire’s willing to sit around with him doing a random activity. “Are you sure?”

“I’m in charge of destination, though,” Grantaire says. “Tonight wasn’t awful, but it was nowhere near good. It’s a good thing we skipped this step, otherwise I probably would’ve left you within a month.”

Enjolras frowns. “Really?”

“Of course not,” Grantaire says, and removes some of the distance between them, sliding an arm around Enjolras’ waist. “You should kiss me now.”

Enjolras makes a pleased kind of noise, and reaches up to get a gentle hold on Grantaire’s chin. He tilts Grantaire’s head to the side, facing towards the door, and presses a soft kiss on to Grantaire’s cheek. “Thank you for indulging me tonight. That was sweet of you,” he says quietly.

“I said _kiss me_ , not-”

“But I barely scraped by on the date,” Enjolras objects.

“The date’s over, Enjolras. Stop trying to be good respectful boyfriend material,” Grantaire says.

“Meaning if this was a blind date you wouldn’t really want to go out again,” Enjolras says, and uses his grip on Grantaire’s chin to ensure Grantaire has to look him in the eye. “And therefore a more standard relationship _wouldn’t_ work.”

It’s probably true. They have very little in common, and Enjolras would probably get sick of Grantaire pretty fucking fast, and Grantaire would eventually realize that Enjolras really _is_ this passionate constantly about absolutely everything (which is _exhausting_ sometimes) and it would fall apart fast and jagged like they were two cannonballs attached with ever-fraying twine.

“You’re right. We’d never work as boyfriends,” Grantaire says, and watches Enjolras’ shoulders sag, his hand falling to just rest on Grantaire’s shoulder. “But can you even imagine _wanting_ to be boyfriends? Being one of those average, _boring_ relationships, where we both just merrily get on with our own individual lives and meet up sometimes and there’s talking and some activity and probably sex, and then we separate, and just repeat that over and over?”

Enjolras looks absolutely horrified.

“ _Exactly_ ,” Grantaire says.

“That’s normal?” Enjolras asks. “ _That’s_ what standard dating is?”

“For us? Yes. That’s what standard dating would mean,” Grantaire says. “Please stop thinking dating would be a good thing for us to do. We would be fucking _horrible_ as boyfriends, but that doesn’t even matter. I don’t care. I don’t want a boyfriend, Enjolras, and neither do you. I want whatever you call what we already have.”

“Marriage,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire doesn’t bother to tell him they aren’t exactly a standard marriage either.

“So yes, I will go on dates with you. But no, I will not consider you my fucking _boyfriend_ ,” Grantaire says, completely disgusted even by the thought of their relationship changing into some kind of impermanent dating situation.

Enjolras makes a pleased, satisfied humming noise, and finally, _finally_ kisses Grantaire, leaning forward to press their lips together. It’s simple, but Enjolras somehow makes it feel anything but. Maybe it’s how the hand on Grantaire’s shoulder tightens possessively, maybe it’s the way his body is suddenly completely overtaking Grantaire’s personal space, maybe it’s just the fact it’s _Enjolras_ and nothing is simple with Enjolras.

It’s brief, and Grantaire fights the urge to chase his lips. Grantaire wants so much more, but Enjolras slides away to open the door to their apartment, which, yes, Grantaire can agree with that action. He’s already starting to strip Enjolras’ suit jacket off before they’re even through the door, and-

“ _Augh_ , stop! Stop stop stop,” Gavroche shouts.

Enjolras, being Enjolras, immediately grabs Grantaire tightly. He kicks the door shut and glares at Gavroche, who. Well.

Gavroche looks almost like an adult. Kind of. Which makes sense, since he’s what, seventeen? Eighteen? Grantaire hadn’t realized how long it’s been since he _saw_ Gavroche instead of talking via text or a phone call. He’s still the same Gavroche as ever, but there are just the smallest of differences. Most of them are related to the fact he’s almost a legal adult.

“Maybe I should come back later,” Gavroche says.

“That might-” Enjolras starts, but stops when Grantaire quickly frees himself and walks towards where Gavroche is sitting cross-legged on top of their table.

“I called you _twelve times_ , Gavroche,” Grantaire shouts. “Twelve times! I know you’re busy but for fuck’s sake-”

“Slow down, Grantaire,” Gavroche says, making placating motions with his hands, and glances from Grantaire to Enjolras and back. “Let’s take this somewhere else.”

Enjolras frowns, and Grantaire doesn’t know if the fact he flicks the first basic lock shut is pure habit or a subtle yet clumsy objection. “What’s happening?”

“It’s above your pay grade, Enjolras,” Gavroche says, and scowls at Grantaire. “Grantaire’s, too, but that’s out of my hands. Come on, we’ll talk in the armory.”

Gavroche, being Gavroche, just casually hops his way from the table to the staircase and trots on up to the top, waiting.

“What’s he talking about, Grantaire?” Enjolras asks as Grantaire starts up the stairs.

“Art commissions,” Grantaire says.

“You don’t do commissions,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire sighs, trying to figure out what to say while he unlocks the armory, and settles on, “It was an offer I couldn’t refuse.”

“ _Grantaire_ ,” Enjolras says.

“Everything’s going to be okay, Enjolras. I promise. I like Grantaire way too much to let this get bad,” Gavroche says, and when did he start talking like this? He grins at Enjolras, and shoves Grantaire in to the armory, shutting the door behind them.

It is completely silent.

Grantaire can’t help it, though. He feels like some sort of really weird distant uncle or second cousin seeing Gavroche at a family reunion for the first time in years. “God, you – what the fuck, you're growing up.”

“Better run for cover,” Gavroche says, and there’s something in the words that makes Grantaire’s heart stop beating for a moment. Obviously Gavroche can somehow tell, and he brushes off any concerns Grantaire could possibly have. He shrugs. “I’m not sure what to do with the height, to be honest. I mean, I can reach things and jump higher and people don’t constantly ask me where my parents are, which is good, but I’ve never been this old before. I’m getting _tall_. It’s weird.”

“That pesky puberty, gets you every time,” Grantaire says, and leans on the built-in table in the center of the room. “So. Why did a woman give me a mindblowing amount of money to keep you busy for a month?”

“I don’t have anything planned for this month,” Gavroche objects. “I mean, nothing _big_ , it’s just the usual kind of stuff I run with my kids doing, you know? And that’s the other thing about being this old. I mean, my kids are getting older too, but some of them are still like _five_ , it probably would look creepy if I get even older.”

Grantaire tries very, very hard to keep his expression neutral. “What do you mean, _if_ you get older?”

“You’d think I’m crazy if I explained it,” Gavroche says, and waves the question off, which is in absolutely no way reassuring. “Point is, it really sucks that you’re involved in this stuff now. Sorry about that. I’ve had words with stupid bald Annie, so this should be the end of that. The deal stands, though. Lots of money for lots of paint.”

“That’s not the problem, Gavroche,” Grantaire says, and fuck, what has he missed? What is Gavroche involved in? What the fuck is _any_ of this? “My questions are _why_ questions, and the big one is whether or not you’ll be okay.”

“Yeah, but the more you know, the more trouble you can get,” Gavroche says. “I didn’t call you back because there’s honestly not much to talk about. Whatever you need for the portraits, I can get you. I already figured you’d need a bigger studio, so I-”

“Stop treating me like a fucking _child_ , Gavroche!” Grantaire shouts, and Gavroche blinks at him, stunned. “I respect the fuck out of you, I really do, and I respected you when you were, what, _twelve?_ I never treated you like you were too naïve or too young or too-”

“I’m not telling you. Deal with it. If I had my way, you wouldn’t even know there’s something to not know,” Gavroche says. He gives Grantaire an uncertain, sad look. “You know I really like you, Grantaire, right? I really do. You mean a lot to me, you always have, and I want you to be safe.”

Grantaire sighs. “I know,” he says. “I know you mean well by doing this, Gavroche. I do.”

“No, I mean – here,” Gavroche says, and reaches into his coat to pull out a plastic-wrapped toy bird, for some reason.

When Gavroche hands it over, it makes a lot more sense. It’s a little red hawk, and when Grantaire looks at it more closely, he can see it’s actually _really_ impressively made. The wrapping made him think it was some sort of fast food kid’s meal toy Gavroche picked up randomly, but there’s absolutely nothing random about this thing. It is beautifully detailed, and undeniably hand-picked, if not handmade, for Fabron.

“Swear to me you’ll take that when you go to see the kid,” Gavroche says, strangely serious. It makes Grantaire very, very sure it’s more than just a toy bird. It could very easily be some sort of tracking device – and fuck knows keeping a tracker on Fabron would be a good idea, although why Gavroche is determined to take care of it, Grantaire can only guess.

Grantaire wants to ask. He wants to ask so many questions.

Instead, he says, “I promise.”

Gavroche nods, and doesn’t look even a little bit more relaxed. “Sometimes, things just happens and you can’t do anything about it,” he says, and moves forward to put a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder, smiling. “But, then again, sometimes you can.”

“What happened to you?” Grantaire asks, practically blurts it out unintentionally.

“Everyone grows up,” Gavroche says, and scowls at some invisible target. “Eventually. _Finally_.” He sighs, and squeezes Grantaire’s shoulder, giving him a small, reassuring smile. “But don’t worry. I’m fine, and I’m going to take care of this thing with Annie, I promise. Seriously, you can ignore this stuff. Keep the bird on you, and just let me know when and where for the big stupid portrait, okay?”

“Okay,” Grantaire says, because what else can he say? Demand information even though Gavroche clearly won’t give it to him? It’s a waste of everyone’s time, and the longer they’re in here, the more worried Enjolras will be.

Gavroche grins at him, and says, “Good,” and he’s out of the room before Grantaire can even reach the door. When Grantaire _does_ get through the armory’s door, it’s just in time to hear Enjolras let out an objecting shout of Gavroche’s name as the front door’s locks are unlocked. Gavroche is out of the apartment before Grantaire can even shout at him.

Grantaire groans, and presses his forehead to the armory’s doorframe.

“What happened?” Enjolras asks quickly, looking up at him. Even at this distance, Grantaire can see the concern etched across his face. “Are you okay? Is Gavroche okay?”

“It’s all fine,” Grantaire says, and starts down the stairs. “Gavroche gave me a toy bird for Fabron, and we talked about painting commissions and puberty. It wasn’t exactly mindblowing.”

Enjolras doesn’t look convinced. “Are you going to tell me about the commissions?”

“I got ambushed at Sirine’s gallery and said yes, okay? There’s not much story to it. The only tricky part is they want me to paint Gavroche, and fuck knows it’s hard to get him to stay in one place for five minutes, let alone long enough for a stupidly huge portrait,” Grantaire says. “Seriously, the dimensions on this thing – okay, maybe the payment could make sense if you go by _area_ , money measured by fucking cubits or something, I don’t know-”

“Grantaire, you can’t just.” Enjolras says, but stops himself. He shuts his eyes, breathes out long and smoothly, and then meets Grantaire’s eyes. “If you say it’s fine and I shouldn’t worry, I won’t worry, because I trust you completely.”

And if that isn’t a fucking terrifying blend of horrific and heartwarming, Grantaire doesn’t know what is.

“Everything’s going to be okay,” Grantaire says, and walks over, immediately scooping up Enjolras’ hands into his own. He smiles, as genuinely reassuring as he can possibly be. “Really, it is.”

“I trust you, Grantaire,” Enjolras says again, and he _means it_ , soul deep and final, the kind of defining fact someone could wrap their worldview around. He twists their hands just enough to slot their fingers together, weaving a link between them that Grantaire is terrified he'll break.


	9. Musain - Ulyana - Hôpital; {Cote d'Ivoire}

Grantaire wakes up alone, despite the fact it’s barely 7:30 and he is very, _very_ sure Enjolras was in bed with him last night.

He will never like being the last one to get out of bed. He doesn’t like the ever-present pathetic voice in the back of his head that keeps thinking _why did he leave did I do something wrong_ even after all this time. Grantaire is a creature of doubt, no matter how hard he tries to be otherwise. In all things, even this ( _especially_ this), Grantaire has the tiniest remaining fear that he’s ruined absolutely everything, just by being himself.

It’s a thought he’s resigned himself to stomping down every single time he wakes up in a bed with Enjolras already gone.

Grantaire untangles himself from the sheets and stands, reciting the usual pathetic _I know he loves me, this is a permanent thing, fucking relax already_ mantra, and makes himself somewhat presentable (also known as puts pants on) before daring to leave the bedroom.

Enjolras is sitting at the table, working. The laptop’s keys are clicking away beneath his fingers, and there are papers around him from those notes he scribbles down about things to take care of later, and Grantaire relaxes again because this is absolutely normal behavior for Enjolras on a mission. He’s trying to make an entire fucking life plan for them, so of course he’d want to get an early start on this. Enjolras would probably work twenty-six hours a day if that was humanly possible.

“You’re up early,” Grantaire says, and valiantly fights to keep from yawning.

“I would’ve woken you, but the point was to get work done before you were awake,” Enjolras says, but gives Grantaire a quick smile before turning back to the laptop. “Take a shower, and then we can get started.”

Grantaire frowns. “Started? What do you mean, get started?”

Slowly, Enjolras looks up from the laptop, watching Grantaire carefully. “I’m referring to our agreement. I promised full disclosure about Fabron-”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Grantaire shouts, and seriously considers banging his head against the wall. Instead, he ends up grabbing at his hair. “How do you do this?! How do I just fucking _forget_ about this the second you are involved in my life?!”

“Compartmentalization, most likely,” Enjolras says, completely straightforward and not a little bit apologetic. “I did kind of help it along this time by requesting it, but this shouldn’t exactly be shocking by now.”

“What, you think I have one compartment specially made just for you, and one for everything else that ever existed?” Grantaire asks.

Enjolras hesitates, but says, “There’s no way to say yes without sounding arrogant.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, when have you ever managed that,” Grantaire mutters, and proceeds to take one of the angriest sulkiest showers in human history. Because yes, fine, Grantaire does that sometimes. Problems only _really_ show up when something in the ‘everything else’ column fits in both categories, like when Enjolras decides to do something particularly awful.

Like, oh, maybe using a little boy as a spy. If Enjolras isn’t the one actually being used. He still has no fucking clue what Fabron’s game is. Maybe he doesn’t even have one, and he really is just some scared little boy – but no. Oh no. No nine-year-old can shut up that hard or redirect that smoothly without _some_ kind of training. Fabron listens too well. He’s scared in all the wrong ways – a normal kid would be fucking _terrified_ of a gun after all that shit, not reassured by it.

When he gets out of the shower, Enjolras has a small simple breakfast set out for him on the now clear table. There’s also a sketchbook, a pack of cigarettes, and a bottle of vodka. It is very, very reminiscent of another similar set-up just a day or two ago. Enjolras is hovering next to the table like a nervous waiter on his very first day.

“Is this another powerpoint?” Grantaire asks.

“I considered it, but no,” Enjolras says, and gestures towards the chair, so Grantaire obliges him and sits down. Enjolras sits down on the other side of the table, facing him, eyes wide and fingers flittering across the table anxiously. “This won't be a nice conversation.”

Grantaire laughs, not quite bitter. “ _Nothing_ is nice about this situation, Enjolras,” he says.

“Right,” Enjolras says, and nods, bringing his hands together to still them. He lets out a deep breath. “Okay.”

“Get on with it, Enjolras,” Grantaire says.

“Maybe you should eat first. Or not. Actually, eating might be a horrible idea, an empty stomach might be better for this,” Enjolras says, and quickly pulls Grantaire's plate across the table. Then, he stands up, goes and grabs an empty mixing bowl from the kitchen, and comes back to set it on the other edge of the table. It’s like they’re using the world’s weirdest scales – Grantaire’s stolen breakfast on one end of the table, Enjolras’ sudden urge to have a never-used bowl nearby taking up the other end.

Intellectually, Grantaire is fully aware this is entirely Enjolras’ nerves. He does this shit. Controlling Grantaire, making his choices, trying to predict for anything and everything, acting like a fucking idiot – it’s all classic Enjolras anxiety, and the best method to cope with this would be to just indulge Enjolras until he calms down and can function normally-for-Enjolras again.

But that’s _intellectually_ , so.

“Anything else you need to get? Scissors, dog food, a plunger to just suck the inevitable bullshit out of your mouth and save us time?” Grantaire asks.

Enjolras glares at him. “This isn’t just some kind of weather report, Grantaire, it’s fucking _important_ , and I wasn’t going to tell you until-”

“Until what, you’d already done whatever you’re planning to do without letting me know about it?” Grantaire asks. “Until _you_ want to tell me?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Enjolras says, like he’s incredibly relieved that Grantaire understands.

“That’s kind of a bad thing, Enjolras,” Grantaire says, voice rising. “As in a _very_ bad thing.”

“In most cases, yes, that’s a bad thing, I understand that. I do,” Enjolras says firmly. “But this situation isn’t what I think you’re thinking. It’s nothing _bad_. It’s.” He pauses, awkward. “Delicate.”

“Delicate,” Grantaire echoes. “What the fuck does delicate mean?”

“Delicate means I’m worried about what will happen when I tell you,” Enjolras says. “Delicate means I’m trying to be careful, and gentle, and cautious, and to do this as calmly and easily as possible for you.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “Stop acting like you’re telling me I have a terminal illness. What are your plans for the kid?”

“I want to adopt him,” Enjolras states.

It actually probably is a good thing that Enjolras took the food away because Grantaire chokes on nothing, he chokes on fucking _air_ , like his lungs were torn between laughter and screaming and settled on just malfunctioning. Who knows what would happen if he'd been eating. “You _what?_ ”

“I want to adopt Fabron. I want to adopt him, and raise him, and make him happy,” Enjolras says firmly.

“And then what?” Grantaire asks.

Enjolras frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Okay, do you really expect me to believe that your _only_ motivation to keep the kid around is some random burst of paternal instinct?” Grantaire asks.

“It’s not random,” Enjolras says, and squeezes his eyes shut for a painful moment before looking Grantaire ominously intently in the eye. “It’s because I know Fabron’s parentage.”

Grantaire’s eyebrows rise so quickly it almost hurts his eyelids, because wow, that was not what he expected. At all. “How do you know who his parents are?”

“Combeferre,” Enjolras says simply, and leans forward, still staring straight into Grantaire’s eyes. “I only know one of Fabron’s parents, but I would do absolutely anything to protect his father’s child. _Anything_.”

“Should I be jealous?” Grantaire asks, baffled into blurting the words out, because seriously, this is completely different from absolutely everything Grantaire knows or expected and prepared for.

“No, you should not be jealous,” Enjolras says, voice strangely rough.

Grantaire nods, suddenly awkward. There is way too much emotion going on in Enjolras right now. “And do I get to know who this magical man of a dad is?” he asks.

“You,” Enjolras says. And then he just waits there, watching Grantaire intently.

It gets old fast. Grantaire rolls his eyes and asks, “You what?”

“It’s _you_ , Grantaire,” Enjolras says.

“What about me?” Grantaire asks.

“You’re the father,” Enjolras says, slow and methodical.

Grantaire shakes his head. “No, seriously, who?”

“ _You are Fabron’s father_ ,” Enjolras says, so firmly and passionately and completely certain that for a second Grantaire actually thinks _oh fuck I’m a dad_.

And then logic kicks in.

It’s interesting, how logic kicks in sometimes when Grantaire panics. It’s interesting, and convenient, and Grantaire will be so fucking grateful for it when he can think again.

“That’s impossible,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras reaches forward, and gently holds one of Grantaire’s hands. “I know you don’t want to believe it, Grantaire, but-”

“No, I’m not in denial, I’m serious. There’s no fucking way I’m his dad. I can’t be,” Grantaire insists. “Really, I can’t!”

“This is the definition of denial,” Enjolras says, somehow both gentle and unimpressed.

“Okay, tell me this, when was I last in Marseille? Other than when we got into the Fabron shitstorm. Although that would still kind of prove my point,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras obviously wants to keep going down the _search your feelings_ road, but humors Grantaire. “Two years ago, and then two and a half years ago, and then probably three and a half years ago,” he says.

“And I was probably about fifteen the last time I was in Marseille,” Grantaire says. “Does Fabron look like he is in _any_ way in one of those age ranges?”

It takes a second, but Enjolras eventually says, “There’s no proof he was born in Marseille.”

“I have one rule, Enjolras,” Grantaire says. “ _One_ rule. What is that rule?”

Enjolras makes a frustrated noise. “That has nothing to do with-”

Grantaire steamrolls him because otherwise Enjolras is going to convince Grantaire. That’s what Enjolras _does_. If Grantaire doesn’t get this through Enjolras’ head, Enjolras will convince Grantaire it’s the truth regardless of logic or memory. “I have one rule in _everything_ , one single rule, and what is that rule?”

“No kids,” Enjolras says.

“And considering my fucked up mental state at the time of Fabron’s theoretical inception, do you think there is _any_ way that wouldn’t be on my mind every single second of the day?” Grantaire asks. “Because it was. It really, really was. You think I was bad when you met me, but that was nowhere _near_ as bad as I got. That was the upswing. That was after what’s-his-name had already fucking picked me up. I swear this is not something that could’ve happened, Enjolras. I would’ve sooner shot myself in the head than risk having a kid.”

He does not mention how he’d felt about the whole shooting himself in the head thing in general at the time. There are many things that Enjolras never needs to know, and that one’s definitely on the list.

“I’m not Fabron’s father, Enjolras,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras is very, very quiet. Finally, he says, “I have never seen you connect with someone as quickly and completely as you did with Fabron.” 

Grantaire makes a frustrated noise. “That has nothing to do with-”

“Just listen to me,” Enjolras says, still somehow gentle. “You understand him, and you know how to talk to him, and I don’t think that’s a coincidence. There are mannerisms you have in common that are so tiny you don’t realize you do them. But most importantly, I can see physical similarities beyond incidental ones, like his bone structure, for example. The shape of his hand is very similar to yours. I spend a lot of time looking at you, Grantaire, and it’s there.”

“It’s there because you want it to be,” Grantaire says. “I could probably find _you_ in his skeletal structure or whatever if I looked hard enough.”

“You at least need to entertain the _possibility_ that you are his father. Combeferre is very rarely wrong. Drawing blood from Fabron _willingly_ isn’t going to happen yet, and could possibly even be traumatic for him at this point, so I don’t know when we could do a paternity test. But we _will_ have one done, and you can’t just write this off. Not until there’s proof,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire takes a moment, watching Enjolras’ face. He’s firm yet sympathetic, trying so hard to convince Grantaire of this in some kind of soft and easy kind of way.

There’s honestly not a single ulterior motive here. Enjolras just genuinely wants to keep what he thinks is Grantaire’s son. What he _wants_ to be Grantaire’s son.

“You don’t know what he is, do you? You don’t know what you’re dealing with,” Grantaire says. “You really do think he’s just a kid.”

“He _is_ just a kid,” Enjolras says. “He’s a scared little boy-”

“Fabron is a teeny tiny intelligence agent, Enjolras,” Grantaire says. “He’s a fucking _spy_. I know how to talk to him because I can tell he’s some sort of criminal information depository or whatever.” 

“You think he’s faking the screaming panic attacks,” Enjolras states, very obviously not welcoming this idea.

Grantaire shakes his head. “No, I don’t think he is. Whatever happened when we broke into the fancy villa place fucked him up pretty justifiably. But he’s too comfortable with guns. He’s too good at being quiet. He’s _too good_ , Enjolras. Fabron is a fucked up little boy, sure, but he’s not some innocent baby who just toddled on in to a den of criminals,” Grantaire says. “And that’s not even starting on the fact people are after him. People want something the kid has.”

“Yes, they do,” Enjolras says. “They want leverage, because he has _your_ DNA, and everyone knows we’d be at their mercy if they had Fabron. Most people already think we broke in to the villa just to get Fabron out-”

“Oh god, you’ve told people I’m his dad,” Grantaire realizes, horrified. “You’ve _told people_ and you didn’t even think to fucking check with me?!”

“I didn’t tell anyone, Grantaire, it just got out. My guess is someone in the café overheard a conversation and it traveled from there,” Enjolras says.

“So you told ABC, basically,” Grantaire says. And one of them probably shouted it out in shock or horror because yes, that would be shout-worthy news.

Enjolras just shrugs.

If Enjolras already told all of ABC, he believes this completely. He is absolutely certain that Fabron is Grantaire’s poor traumatized offspring.

That needs to change.

“Okay, how about this,” Grantaire says, leaning forward. “Let’s make a bet. We go see Fabron, and we ask to draw some blood for the paternity test. If he says no or freaks out, you’re right and he really is just a scared little boy. If he asks questions before answering, or just says yes, I’m right, and it is _you_ who has to at least entertain the idea that he is more than you think. And then there’s a paternity test, and this can all go away. Deal?”

Enjolras looks torn. “I’m very uncomfortable with asking Fabron for blood,” he says.

“Which is why I’m doing the asking, remember?” Grantaire points out, and stands up, walking purposefully towards the bedroom and grabbing both of their coats (and the bird thing, since he promised). When he comes back out, Enjolras is not looking happy, but he does take his coat when Grantaire hands it to him.

“This isn’t,” Enjolras begins, looking strangely sad. “Grantaire, this isn’t a good thing to do to a child. I know you don’t want to believe it, but you more than anyone else should understand how bad this could get.”

“And that’s why you should also realize that I’m absolutely right. Would I do this to the kid if I didn’t know he’d be fine?” Grantaire asks. When Enjolras continues to look uncertain, Grantaire can’t help it. He rolls his eyes. “Enjolras, the kid was reassured by a fucking _gun_. That is not normal child behavior.”

“Fine,” Enjolras says, and puts on his coat. “And you promise you’ll believe you might be his father?” When Grantaire makes a frustrated noise, Enjolras glares at him. “I’m not giving a child a panic attack solely to humor your denial, Grantaire! If you won’t-”

“I promise I’ll treat it like a genuine possibility if you’re right and he freaks out,” Grantaire confirms.

Enjolras is not remotely satisfies, but he nods and accepts it as he leads them out the door.

\---

There are some things that shouldn’t really be a surprise to Grantaire, but they still pop up and shock him. Like the fact Enjolras would be an absolutely terrible father.

“This was not a good idea, Enjolras,” Grantaire says as they walk up to the building. He looks to his side, disapproving. “At all.”

“She raised me just fine, I don’t see how Fabron could be any harder to deal with,” Enjolras defends, and Grantaire opens the door, and Enjolras steps in first, and Grantaire follows him into the apartment building’s foyer. He doesn’t even bother commenting on how every single thing about Enjolras' statement is so wrong. “I thought that this could be good. He hasn’t exactly been around anyone I’d call gentle recently, and if anyone could be-”

“Did you even explain the situation to Ulyana? Or did you just show up with a kid and she was so fucking happy to see you, let alone you _with a kid_ , that there were no questions involved?” Grantaire asks.

Enjolras’ glare is plenty of an answer there.

“I did warn her about the panic attacks,” Enjolras says, which is _something_ at least, and presses the buzzer for his old housekeeper-slash-nanny’s apartment. “I would never just throw Ulyana into a dangerous situation.”

“Well, guess what, you did,” Grantaire says.

Ulyana is the kindest woman Grantaire has ever had the honor of meeting. She’s maternal instinct personified, practically born to devote her life to caring about people. Apparently she wasn’t even supposed to be Enjolras’ nanny, it just kind of happened naturally and his parents weren’t going to say no to having a nanny for the price of a regular maid.

“You think Fabron would hurt Ulyana?” Enjolras asks, incredulous.

“No, Enjolras, I think the people who are trying to _kill him_ would hurt Ulyana,” Grantaire says. Enjolras presses the buzzer again. “Even if this _is_ because he’s my son - which he _isn’t_ \- this was a stupid choice. He hasn’t been around anyone gentle because he needs to be around someone who can actually-”

“Pick the lock,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire glares at him. Enjolras steps away from the inner door with a frustrated noise and motions towards it. “I mean it, Grantaire. Pick the lock. Ulyana knows I’m coming, she’d be running to answer. Something’s wrong.”

Grantaire pats his pockets down, and grimaces. “I only have my knives,” he says, which was really fucking stupid of him. He knows if Fabron is even a little bit involved in something, he should be fully armed. He was just too ridiculously worked up about this to think of additional armament beyond what’s pretty much built into his coat by now.

Enjolras makes a frustrated noise, glaring at the large wooden door, and quickly buzzes Ulyana’s next door neighbor.

_“What?”_ a voice says.

“I’m trying to visit Ulyana, she lives next to you and isn’t responding. I need you to let me in,” Enjolras says firmly.

_“Whatever,”_ the voice mutters, and the door unlocks.

Grantaire catches it before the door can even think of locking and holding it open for Enjolras. Soon enough, they’re running up the stairs, and Grantaire kind of feels like an asshole because there is genuine worry on Enjolras’ face. There’s no way to take it back and say this isn’t Enjolras’ fault or something, and they both know it wouldn’t be true even if he said it. He just wants to find some way to keep Enjolras focused on the potential threat, not the potential damage.

When they get to Ulyana’s floor, it’s easy to tell which apartment is hers, because there’s a very loud buzzing noise from inside, which definitely explains why their attempts at communication failed. Enjolras stands to the side of the door, and motions for Grantaire to stand next to him. _He_ was smart enough to bring a gun. Grantaire doesn’t even bother pulling anything out beyond his gloves, pure habit.

“Get Fabron somewhere safe,” Enjolras says, doing a quick bullet and safety check of his pistol. “That’s all you do. You get him somewhere _safe_.”

“Fuck that, I’m not leaving you,” Grantaire says, barely audible above the bizarre buzzing noise.

Enjolras scowls at him. “ _Fine_ , but you still need to get Fabron out. I’m getting Ulyana.”

Grantaire nods, because it’s fair enough. Enjolras nods back, and that’s as much of a go signal as they need. This isn’t a lockpicking sort of situation either, that’s obvious enough just looking at the crease of Enjolras’ brow, so Grantaire just mentally rolls his eyes at this entire fucking situation ( _why_ did Enjolras think putting Ulyana in charge of the kid was a good idea? _Why?_ ) and kicks the door in. He gives it one heavy boot-hammeringwhere the lock and doorframe meet, and the crack and splintering is audible even over that fucking buzzing noise.

Four things happen in that moment.

Enjolras immediately shoves Grantaire to the side and is the first through the door. As ever. It’s barely worth commenting on by this point.

Grantaire spots Ulyana’s neighbor, the one Enjolras had convinced (well, ‘convinced’) to buzz them in, standing in the hall, saying, “ _Finally_.” Grantaire can read his lips over the almost deafening _gzzzt_ noise. He can read the relief on his face. It's the kind of relief someone gets when they see success after trying and failing for a long, long time.

Grantaire realizes they’re fucking idiots and whoever is in Ulyana’s apartment obviously knows someone’s coming, and more likely than not, they know that someone is Enjolras.

The buzzing stops.

After that, it’s a fucking nightmare.

Grantaire reaches for Enjolras, fingertips barely brushing the back of his coat as he lunges forward and screams out, “ _Wait!_ ”

Enjolras turns just enough to look back at Grantaire. It’s not much of a change in position, just a few degrees of rotation, nothing but a tiny difference in angles, but sometimes it doesn’t take much. Sometimes a millimeter can be the most important distance in the world. Centimeters? It’s a blessing. It’s a divine blessing of a distance that keeps the bullet centimeters, just _centimeters_ from Enjolras’ heart.

He’s looking into Grantaire’s eyes when it hits.

It’s not surprise or fear. It’s something close to resignation, and fuck, oh fuck, it’s _regret_ that widens Enjolras’ eyes as his body is shoved back from a tiny piece of metal with lethal force behind it. There’s a choked noise that goes with it, but Grantaire can't hear it. The world is silent, everything focused down to the fact anyone who has ever called Enjolras’ coat blood red hasn’t seen blood. Not fresh blood, at least; Grantaire has seen this plenty of times. There’s occasionally a huge burst of blood, if you hit the right spot, but no, not with Enjolras. There’s an outward flick of blood from Enjolras’ chest, and as he falls he starts to bleed, _really_ bleed, life spilling out of his chest and seeping into his coat, and no.

No.

Grantaire is still reaching, trapped in a single second of hell as he gets a fist full of Enjolras’ coat and someone shoots Enjolras, oh god, oh fuck, they shot Enjolras, and there’s going to be a second bullet, so Grantaire grabs him and wants to try for the door but there’s no fucking time so he just settles for the floor. He pulls Enjolras back and drops them both. It’s hardwood, and Grantaire makes sure that Enjolras falls with Grantaire between him and the rest of the room, trying to cushion his fall as much as possible. 

Enjolras whimpers, letting out a muted cry of pain.

There’s a second shot, and a third, and they sail over Grantaire’s head as gravity plays its part. This is Ulyana’s living room, and Enjolras’ eyes are open, wide and mournful, and Grantaire kicks over Ulyana's painfully old coffee table to give them some kind of shelter or _something_ , even though the door is right fucking there. They have a hefty coffee table and a couch to hide them from whoever is shooting at them, but it's not enough to be safe. It's nowhere near enough.

Sound starts coming back, then. It starts with the sound of gunfire. He can hear Fabron shouting. He hears nothing from Ulyana. He hears unknown voices shouting and snarling at each other, at Fabron, at everyone and everything – they’re nervous. They’re probably new. They’re obviously going to die.

Enjolras is breathing, and Grantaire holds on to Enjolras, trying to be gentle but probably almost suffocating him with the crushing tightness of his arm keeping a death grip on Enjolras’ waist. His breathing does not sound good. It doesn't sound even a little bit good.

Grantaire keeps holding on to him.

Enjolras makes a noise, a high choked thing, and he’s looking up at Grantaire and he’s apologizing without saying a single fucking thing, and he’s bleeding, there's blood beneath Grantaire's hand, and. And.

Enjolras shifts, gets a hand on Grantaire’s shirt, and his breathing isn't okay. It’s _very not good_.

“Promise,” Enjolras manages to say. Or Grantaire thinks that’s what it is. His expression says most of it even without words. He moves just enough to touch Grantaire's cheek, and there’s a horrible noise when he moves and, fuck, there’s blood, and it’s Enjolras’ blood, and Enjolras says, “ _Promise._ ”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire chokes out. “Enjolras, please. _Please._ ”

Enjolras makes a broken noise.

His hand drops.

His eyes close.

Enjolras goes limp.

And Grantaire.

Grantaire was twelve the first time he wanted to die, thirteen when he thought about actually doing it, thinking _they’d fucking notice then, wouldn’t they._ After that, it was whimsy. Then, it was what he fucking deserved. Then, it’s what he _didn’t_ deserve, wasn’t good enough for it. It’s been a long time since being dead seemed like anything other than a relief. No more trying. No more nothing. Even Grantaire couldn’t fuck up being dead.

The only thing, the _only_ thing, the sole entity in all of existence that matters, is Enjolras. It’d be like living on an Earth with no sun. No light, no heat, just cold and dark and a slow empty death.

Self-preservation has never been one of Grantaire’s traits.

But with _Enjolras_ preservation, he’s pretty fucking dedicated.

He’s still breathing. It’s a horrific wounded sound, but Enjolras is _alive_. For now.

Something cold settles in his mind, and for some reason, he thinks back to telling Doctor Judo or whatever his name is about how very important it is to have a safety latch, that little mental barrier that keeps you from doing anything _too_ bad.

Grantaire breaks his fucking latch off. He rips that shit off of the entire metaphorical construct and grinds it into the dirt. Fuck safety. Fuck doing the _moral_ thing.

He tries to get Enjolras’ _unconscious_ and not dead body into a comparatively comfortable position while keeping him very very safe, and shouts out, “Fair warning, I _will_ be killing you in about thirty seconds unless you surrender right now.”

“We have hostages!” one of them shouts.

“I don’t fucking care. You are wasting my time,” Grantaire tells them, eerily calm, and reaches out, grabs Enjolras’ gun.

He’s estimating there’s three of them, from all the shouting. It could be more, but he doesn’t really care unless he runs out of bullets and it gets messy.

He thinks back to the other couple of times he’s been in Ulyana’s small apartment, and from there he can guess where they’re going to be, so there’s not much trouble in standing up and spotting them, all shaking and holding their weapons like toddlers trying to keep a hold on their favorite toy. One of them aims at Grantaire and pulls the trigger, but there’s nothing but a biting sensation in his side that Grantaire doesn’t care about. Two shots take two of them down, but the third is behind a Fabron who…huh.

Grantaire will think about the fact half of Fabron’s thick curly dark hair is shaved off and there’s numbers and words or something tattooed on his scalp later.

More importantly, it’s nice to know Fabron’s on his side, because the kid drops to the floor and gives Grantaire a quick enough opportunity to shoot the third asshole in the head and bam, done. Ulyana’s tied up and unconscious, on the floor in the corner of the kitchen. So, it’s a choice between an old injured unconscious civilian, and a traumatized but moving kid who actually knows how to function in a crisis.

“Can you drive?” Grantaire asks him.

The kid shakes his head, eyes wide.

Grantaire cuts his duct taped hands free, and gives him the gun. “Hijack a car. Keep the driver at gunpoint. Tell them they’re taking us to a hospital and this is faster than waiting for an ambulance. I’ll meet you at ground level, I have to get Enjolras downstairs,” he says, and pulls his phone out as Fabron and his unintentional undercut take the gun and scurry out of Ulyana’s apartment.

Joly answers the phone fast enough that Grantaire doesn’t want to punch him, which is pretty fucking fast. “Gran-”

“Enjolras got shot in the chest, he’s alive but unconscious and it doesn’t look or sound good,” Grantaire says. “He _really_ doesn't sound good.”

“Can you describe it?” Joly asks.

Grantaire just puts the phone on speaker, walks over, and puts the phone up to Enjolras’ mouth.

“Okay, you have to see if there’s an exit wound,” Joly says.

“There isn’t,” Grantaire says. “I’m getting a car to take him to the hospital, but-”

“This can’t wait until the hospital,” Joly says, and there’s more information exchange that just mostly involves Grantaire stripping Enjolras down and describing things, and then Joly says, “Okay, you need to find some, uh, duct tape, and some plastic.”

“I know where Ulyana’s cling wrap is,” Grantaire says, and grabs the duct tape out of the kitchen they’d used on Fabron and Ulyana.

“No, you need something a little heavier,” Joly says. “Something that won’t just tear, but is still thin enough to let air out – you’re going to make a flutter valve, by the way – and it needs to be big enough to cover the wound, but not _too_ big, it has to cover-”

“Holy fucking shit,” Grantaire says, and pulls out Gavroche’s _fucking_ bird toy, all nice and plastic wrapped. “What the fucking fuck, Joly, you just – I have plastic, and there’s officially something psychic happening with Gavroche.”

“Not exactly news to anyone but you,” Joly says, and soon enough Grantaire is taping plastic over Enjolras’ sucking chest wound, leaving part of it untaped so air can get _out_ , but not _in_ , because Enjolras is currently operating on one lung and it’s not going well. “Okay, I’ll have the hospital prepped for your arrival. Take care.”

Grantaire hangs up, and picks Enjolras up in a bridal hold, terrified to find out if adrenaline has made it this easy or if Enjolras is just somehow tiny and limp because he's dying and weighs less because of it. He gets in the elevator, and goes down, and gets off at ground level, and when he manages to get out of the huge fucking door, Fabron is very much going to get a pet osprey because there’s a van idling right in front of the doors. Moments after he’s left the building, the van’s side door slides open, and there’s a nice convenient bench seat and a quietly shaking woman in the driver’s seat who, bizarrely, calms down when Grantaire carries Enjolras into the car.

The ride is full of a lot of horn honking and Grantaire undoubtedly getting soaked in blood because he’s just…holding Enjolras. Because there’s nothing else he can do at this stage. He just holds Enjolras and tries to keep him a little warmer and if Enjolras dies then at least he's still got the gun and people can call Grantaire’s death a tragedy of guilt or something and feel a little bit better about how it all turned out.

When they get to the hospital, there are people already outside and waiting and fuck, _fuck_ , he has to let go. God. Grantaire fucking gets over it and carefully sets Enjolras down on the gurney and they wheel him away in a flurry of scrubs and white coats and someone tries to take the gun and Grantaire punches them so hard they fall to the ground and someone else is shouting and someone tells Grantaire to please sir at least holster the gun, and holster, sure, he can do that. For now. Until he needs it. He has pockets for that. Enjolras’ pistol goes into his coat. 

People are talking to him, asking him questions, and Grantaire doesn’t fucking care. Fabron is next to him, wearing a hat, and Fabron continues to be beside him when Grantaire walks into the hospital. He stops in front of a desk, where a wide-eyed nurse is watching him.

“Where’d they take him?”

“Surgery,” the nurse says, voice perfectly steady, flawlessly commanding for people who actually obey that sort of thing. “You can’t go in. It’s a sterile environment.”

“Fine,” Grantaire says. “Where’s the room?”

The nurse does not look happy. Grantaire is peripherally aware of the security and orderlies near him. “You can’t go in,” she repeats. 

“I would never endanger the success of Enjolras’ surgery. I just need to keep him safe,” Grantaire says.

She nods carefully, and finally gives Grantaire directions with a stern look at two of the orderlies. When Grantaire starts walking towards Enjolras, the nurse says, “Wait, you can’t take a child-”

“He’s my kid,” Grantaire says, and can’t help it. He laughs, just a little bit hysterically. Something pinches in his side. “Can’t you tell? He’s my _son_. Obviously. Can’t you see the resemblance?”

“He’d better be well behaved,” the nurse warns.

“Oh, he’s very well trained,” Grantaire says, and doesn’t bother acknowledging the orderly who follows him to the surgery doors.

He just stands in the hall, and then sits on the floor, facing the doors that lead towards Enjolras. For a long time, he just sits there. He can’t see in, but that’s fine. For now. It’s not like it would make much of a difference if he could.

Grantaire doesn’t know how long he just sits there before Fabron tugs at his sleeve and says, “My dad’s name was Henri.”

“I know I’m not your father,” Grantaire says. “It just got you through the door.”

“They’ve all been saying it, though. Everyone keeps saying it,” Fabron hisses.

Grantaire sighs, and breaks his staring contest with the doors to raise an eyebrow at Fabron. “Honestly, I don’t even care anymore. I’m putting this decision in your hands. If you want to say I’m your dad, fine. If you don’t, that’s fine too,” Grantaire says. “Either way, we’ll still find you a _real_ family.”

There’s a long silence, and then, Fabron quietly says, “Okay.”

Grantaire just nods, and watches the door.

Time passes.

“You need to wash the blood off of yourself,” someone says eventually. They sound slightly familiar. Grantaire still focuses on Enjolras. There’s a frustrated noise, and then a sharp noise almost like a slap, someone quickly saying, “Don’t touch him. He’s completely unhinged, he’d probably kill you faster than you could wipe a speck of blood off of him.”

“Go away,” Grantaire says.

A pause. “…Grantaire?”

“While it’s true that if you try to move me I’d probably more than happily kill you, I am not in fact in some kind of fugue state,” Grantaire says.

“Do you even know who I am?” the person asks.

“You are not Enjolras and therefore I do not give a fuck,” Grantaire says. Fabron is asleep against his shoulder. He doesn’t give a fuck about that either, to be honest. Mostly he cares that Enjolras has been in surgery for far, far too long.

_Promise_ , Enjolras had tried to say.

Grantaire can’t do it. He _can’t_.

The person says more, and eventually someone – blonde; it’s Cosette – sits on his other side.

“Grantaire, it’s going to be okay,” she says gently, and Grantaire sags, because from Cosette it means something. It hurts. She puts a hand on his back, just the tiniest attempt at comfort, and Grantaire tolerates it. She must take it as something else, though, because she wraps her arms around him, giving him a soft, sweet hug. “We’re here for you.”

“I’m not,” he hears someone say, and Grantaire glances over, because there’s Montparnasse, looking deadly serious. “If you try anything stupid, I’m taking you down, as instructed.”

“Are you,” Grantaire says.

“That’s not going to be necessary,” Cosette says, very loudly. “Because everything is going to be-”

The doors open, a man in green scrubs emerging and saying, “Gaaah – what, _shit_.” He's so startled he genuinely honest-to-god jumps. “You shouldn’t be here!”

Grantaire shoves Fabron off of his shoulder and stands, saying, “Tell me how he is.”

“Well. I was actually about to go report to the next of kin, which I’m assuming is you?” the surgeon says. When Grantaire nods, he smiles. Oh god, he _smiles_. “Right. He’ll be okay. He won’t wake up any time soon so don't worry about that, and recovery isn’t going to be fast or easy, but he _will_ recover. We’ll probably be keeping him in the hospital for a week, actual complete recovery time for him to really be up and moving again is probably two months, possibly more. _Probably_ more. He did get shot in the lung, after all – oh, do you want the bullet?”

Grantaire feels a little bit queasy. “I’m okay,” he says.

“Some people want it,” the surgeon offers.

“I already have plenty,” Grantaire says.

He says something else, then, something that he shrugs about, but Grantaire stops listening because the doors open again, and there’s Enjolras. He’s on a gurney, eyes closed, with tubes in his mouth and nose and arms and chest. Enjolras looks fragile, like the equipment is the only thing keeping him together.

“I’m really going to have to ask you to clean yourself up before you see the patient,” the surgeon says, using the I’m An Expert tone people get when they really do know better than you. “I’m assuming none of the blood is your own? Again, for the patient’s safety, we have to-”

“Oh fuck, I got shot,” Grantaire realizes, and hey, he can actually feel some pain. He had just assumed all of the blood was Enjolras’ blood, and – well, he _still_ can’t quite feel things. Grantaire carefully pulls his coat off, and yep. He got shot. It’s not bad, really, just a bullet lodged in his side. Blood keeps the fabric of his shirt stuck to his skin.

Grantaire isn’t worried, honestly. If it hit anything important, he’d probably know about it.

“Take your shirt off,” the surgeon says, and Grantaire obliges.

“ _Grantaire_ ,” Cosette hisses, scowling at him.

“I didn’t _mean_ to get shot, Cosette,” Grantaire says, and waves her concern away. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“See, this is an excellent example of what adrenaline can do,” the surgeon says, smiling again and flagging a nurse down. “It’s amazing stuff, adrenaline. Anyway, it’s going to be fine, we’ll get that out of you in a jiffy.”

Things start to get kind of blurry.

“And _this_ is another one of the interesting things about the brain,” the surgeon says, scientifically thrilled, and motions someone forward with yet another gurney. “Your adrenaline’s running out and you’re about to crash fairly hard. I’ve always thought of it a different way, though. The second you’re consciously aware you’re doing something remarkable, your brain often decides to stop doing it.”

“Then why’d you fucking tell me,” Grantaire mutters, and passes out.

\---

Emptiness. A self-inflicted silence.

He was alone, and empty.

Quiet rain brought out the scent of wet grass. The weight of droplets hitting his eyelids kept the world dark, and Grantaire preferred it that way. Everything drifted. Everything was pinpricks of cold against his already sweat-damp body, small shots of mercy on his skin.

“Shit, I found him, he’s – Grantaire!” came the unwelcome shout.

The thudding shuffle of boots was heard beneath the soft drip of the rain. Grantaire ignored it to the the best of his ability, tried to ignore anything and everything, but someone dropped to their knees next to him, putting a hand on his chest. “Grantaire, hey, can you hear me? Can you talk?”

The idea of opening his mouth was draining, but the genuine concern in the voice made Grantaire open his eyes, looking up at a slightly relieved face. The red cross symbol of a medic stood out on their sleeve.

“We’ve been looking all over for you,” the medic said, smile undoubtedly meant to reassure Grantaire as he pulled his pack out, only looking away to scavenge through his gear. “Are you up for answering questions?”

“Go away,” Grantaire said, voice hoarse, and shut his eyes again.

“Sorry, you’re stuck with us for a while,” the medic said. There was a shuffle of fabric and dirt. “Is any of this blood yours?”

He was so empty.

“No,” Grantaire whispered.

“Jesus Christ,” someone nearby hissed out, only to be silenced by what sounds like a smack to the shoulder.

“Do you know how you got out here?” the medic asked.

Grantaire moved, then. There was no point to ignoring it. There was no point to anything. He opened his eyes, looking at the assorted expressions on people’s faces, and stood up. “I know how I got here,” Grantaire said.

The medic nodded, hovering nearby in case Grantaire fell. “What do you remember last?”

“Everything,” Grantaire said, and met the other man’s eyes. They were friends, probably. He should’ve known the name of every man here. He barely remembered his own, but his memory was brutally vivid when it came to the important things. “I remember every single fucking thing I did, everything that happened, and I remember everything that you _didn’t do_ , didn’t _stop_ , didn’t-”

“It’s okay, Grantaire,” the medic said softly. The others behind him looked oddly resolute. “It’s okay. We understand. We were there, we saw it too. It wasn’t your fault. You were just closest. There was nothing you could do.”

He didn’t have the energy to laugh or sneer at the idea they _understood_. He barely had the energy to keep breathing.

“What’s next?” Grantaire asked.

They glanced between each other, uncertain, but eventually the medic said, “We’re supposed to take you in, and you’ll be questioned for -”

“Then let’s go,” Grantaire said, and started walking. He lost his shoes somewhere. He didn’t really care. Maybe they would shoot him in the head, or he’d get a firing squad, or there’d be an unfortunate mishap on the road. It was almost something to look forward to.

They wouldn’t stop, though, surrounding him as they walked, flanking him when they drove off with Grantaire stuffed in the back of the jeep. “It wasn’t your fault,” they told him, over and over. They draped him in heavy blankets, and Grantaire wondered how long they'd hunted for him. “Grantaire, it wasn’t your fault. It _wasn't_.”

_There was nothing you could do._

_You did all you could._

_It wasn’t your fault, Grantaire._

Rain turns to beeping.

Grantaire opens his eyes to see Cosette next to him, smiling encouragingly.

“Good morning, Grantaire. I made sure that everything’s okay,” she says.

Grantaire looks around and checks.

Sometimes, people are actually very smart and listen to Cosette. Grantaire likes those times. He is guessing now is one of those times, because he can see Enjolras. Except there’s still tubes and stuff. He doesn’t like seeing that. Or being in a hospital gown. He fucking hates hospitals in general, really.

He notices he has an IV shoved into the top of his hand, and grimaces.

“Don’t you dare,” Cosette says sternly next to him. She doesn’t sound happy, smile or not. That usually means that Grantaire has managed the impossible (well, _uncommon_ ) and tipped her over that ledge of calm sweet honesty she usually exists on. “Enjolras is right there, you can see him perfectly well and you know he’s okay, so _stay put_.”

“I feel weird,” Grantaire says. He’s lighter. Disconnected.

“That’s the anesthesia,” Cosette says. “The bullet hole in your stomach could have something to do with that, too.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “Cosette, this is like. It’s the equivalent of the flu. Fucks my stomach up, I pass out, I’m weak for a few days, and then life goes on,” he says.

Cosette frowns. “It’s nothing like the flu, Grantaire.”

“I dare you to find something that doesn’t fit this analogy beyond the whole bullet thing,” Grantaire says, pointing at her. “Or blood loss. Bullets or blood loss. Nothing _physical_. Except parts that are physical in both situations.”

Her lips twitch. “So, nothing counts unless it works with your analogy,” she says.

“Pretty much,” Grantaire says, and who fucking cares, it’s Cosette and they’re both married as fuck in that humiliatingly ecstatic to be married kind of way, so he fumbles around with the bedding and hospital gown until he can get a look at the big patch of gauze over his side, not bothering to worry about propriety. He looks at it, and then shrugs. “I’ve had worse. Don’t worry about this.”

“I couldn’t stop even if I wanted to,” Cosette says, almost apologetic, and pulls some papers out of her bag. “You seem pretty coherent, so I can give you a quick rundown of what the doctors said to do for Enjolras’ recovery. The biggest concern is his lung. The handout is actually for recovering from lung surgery-”

“Well, it’s not wrong,” Grantaire says.

“-and also it has some. Well.” Cosette sighs, apologetic. “You’re not going to like the restrictions.”

“What I don’t like is Enjolras having a fucking hole in his lung,” Grantaire says. “What’s the-”

Enjolras makes a noise.

Grantaire twists sharply, immediately focuses every shred of awareness on Enjolras. His left hand twitches, and his head shifts towards Grantaire, just slightly, and he’s alive. Unconscious, but alive. Unconscious, and wired up to machines, and covered in white bandages and medical tape, and Grantaire’s side _aches_ but he still reaches over and gently lifts Enjolras’ hand so he can hold it between his own.

Cosette calls Grantaire’s name softly.

“I know,” Grantaire says, and doesn’t let go.

After a while, Cosette just starts talking again. “Fabron hasn’t left your side,” she says. “ _Either_ side, I should say. He was in here with Enjolras when you were in surgery.” There’s a gap where Cosette expects him to talk. Grantaire doesn’t. “Is there a reason a little boy has letters and numbers and symbols tattooed all over his head?”

Grantaire shrugs. “Kids do the weirdest shit these days.”

“They’ve been there for a long time, if he has that much hair grown over them,” Cosette says.

There’s the slightest bit of fluttering beneath Enjolras’ eyelids, a moment or two of movement before it’s gone again, back to being quiet and still, but he’s just sleeping. Nothing else is wrong. Well, the whole shot in the fucking lung thing is wrong, but Enjolras is breathing, and it will be okay. As long as Enjolras is alive, it’ll be okay.

“Grantaire, at least _try_ to focus for me, okay?” Cosette asks, exasperated. She’s standing at the foot of his bed. “You were shot because of Fabron. You were previously attacked on a random rooftop because of Fabron. Whatever it is that people want from Fabron, they are very serious about getting it, and the problem isn’t going to go away just because Enjolras got shot.”

Grantaire’s interest in it sure fucking does.

“Cosette, I love you, but I don’t care,” Grantaire tells her, and squeezes Enjolras’ limp hand. There’s no response. He knows Enjolras is okay, or he’s not dying at least, but Grantaire's heart still feels like it’s tied down and frantically trying to bash its way to freedom. “I just.” He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to ignore how tight his throat is, trying to _breathe_ because fuck knows Enjolras can’t. It consumes his mind. It's the sound of equipment, the coldness of Enjolras' skin, the image of Enjolras unmoving seared into his awareness and never fading. “I _can’t_ care. I _can’t_. Not now, not when Enjolras is-”

“It’s alright, Grantaire. I understand,” Cosette says, and there’s a hand on his shoulder, soothing, but doesn't hide her disappointment. “Let me know when you feel up to talking, okay?”

She backs off, then, quietly sitting back down, undoubtedly figuring things out even without Grantaire’s help. 

Grantaire just holds on to Enjolras’ hand and falls asleep again to the disquieting reassurance of Enjolras’ heart monitor.

**Author's Note:**

> I really was going to come back to this fic, but I am extremely uncomfortable with continuing it after the tragedies caused by _actual terrorist in Paris_. The last chapter was going to have explosions in it, and that in particular I just cannot do. I flat out _can't write that_. As someone from Colorado, I still get upset when people so much as mention Columbine or the Aurora theater shooting, and I imagine it must be even worse for the people of Paris. So, I'm not doing this. I'm sorry if you are disappointed, but _I can't write this._ It was so, _so_ fun when it was all make-pretend, much like city-wide kaiju destruction in movies. Now that it's real......I can't write this anymore.
> 
> Thank you so much for your time and interest in this fic, and I wish you all the best.


End file.
